A Quarter-Back's Pluck: A Story of College Football
by Lester Chadwick · English · Gutenberg #40668 · 380,637 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Quarter-Back's Pluck: A Story of College Football
Author: Lester Chadwick
Release date: September 5, 2012 [eBook #40668]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40668
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK: A STORY OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL ***
[Illustration: "Smash and hammer; hammer and smash!"]
A Quarter-Back's Pluck
A Story of College Football
BY
LESTER CHADWICK
AUTHOR OF "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK
=THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES=
12mo. Illustrated
THE RIVAL PITCHERS
A Story of College Baseball
A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK
A Story of College Football
(Other volumes in preparation)
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK
Copyright, 1910, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MOVING DAY 1
II LANGRIDGE HAS A TUMBLE 10
III PHIL GETS BAD NEWS 20
IV FOOTBALL PRACTICE 31
V A CLASH 43
VI PROFESSOR TINES OBJECTS 52
VII THE FIRST LINE-UP 61
VIII LANGRIDGE AND GERHART PLOT 70
IX SOME GIRLS 77
X A BOTTLE OF LINIMENT 91
XI IN WHICH SOM EONE BECOMES A VICTIM 100
XII THE FIRST GAME 106
XIII SMASHING THE LINE 117
XIV "GIRLS ARE QUEER" 123
XV PHIL SAVES WALLOPS 131
XVI PHIL IS NERVOUS 138
XVII THE SOPHOMORES LOSE 144
XVIII A FIRE ALARM 155
XIX THE FRESHMEN DANCE 162
XX PHIL GETS A TELEGRAM 172
XXI STRANGE BEDFELLOWS 179
XXII A CHANGE IN SIGNALS 187
XXIII BATTERING BOXER HALL 195
XXIV GERHART HAS AN IDEA 210
XXV PHIL GIVES UP 217
XXVI SID IS BOGGED 224
XXVII WOES OF A NATURALIST 233
XXVIII TOM IS JEALOUS 239
XXIX A STRANGE DISCOVERY 246
XXX A BITTER ENEMY 254
XXXI "IT'S TOO LATE TO BACK OUT!" 260
XXXII TOM GETS A TIP 265
XXXIII "LINE UP!" 273
XXXIV THE GAME 280
XXXV VICTORY--CONCLUSION 287
A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK
CHAPTER I
MOVING DAY
Phil Clinton looked critically at the rickety old sofa. Then he glanced
at his chum, Tom Parsons. Next he lifted, very cautiously, one end of
the antiquated piece of furniture. The sofa bent in the middle, much as
does a ship with a broken keel.
"It--it looks like a mighty risky job to move it, Tom," said Phil. "It's
broken right through the center."
"I guess it is," admitted Tom sorrowfully. Then he lifted the head of
the sofa, and warned by an ominous creaking, he lowered it gently to the
floor of the college room which he and his chum, Sid Henderson, were
about to leave, with the assistance of Phil Clinton to help them move.
"Poor old sofa," went on Tom. "You've had a hard life. I'm afraid your
days are numbered."
"But you're not going to leave it here, for some measly freshman to lie
on, are you, Tom?" asked Phil anxiously.
"Not much!" was the quick response.
"Nor the old chair?"
"Nope!"
"Nor the alarm clock?"
"Never! Even if it doesn't keep time, and goes off in the middle of the
night. No, Phil, we'll take 'em along to our new room. But, for the life
of me, I don't see how we're going to move that sofa. It will collapse
if we lift both ends at once."
"I suppose so, but we've got to take it, even if we move it in sections,
Tom."
"Of course, only I don't see----"
"I have it!" cried Phil suddenly. "I know how to do it!"
"How?"
"Splice it."
"Splice it? What do you think it is--a rope ladder? You must be in love,
or getting over the measles."
"No, I mean just what I say. We'll splice it. You wait. I'll go down
cellar, and get some pieces of board from the janitor. Also a hammer and
some nails. We'll save the old sofa yet, Tom."
"All right, go ahead. More power to ye, as Bricktop Molloy would say. I
wonder if he's coming back this term?"
"Yep. Post graduate course, I hear. He wouldn't miss the football team
for anything. Well, you hold down things here until I come back. If the
new freshmen who are to occupy this room come along, tell 'em we'll be
moved by noon."
"I doubt it; but go ahead. I'll try to be comfortable until your return,
dearest," and with a mocking smile Tom Parsons sank down into an easy
chair that threatened to collapse under his substantial bulk. From the
faded cushions a cloud of dust arose, and set Tom to sneezing so hard
that the old chair creaked and rattled, as if it would fall apart.
"Easy! Easy there, old chap!" exclaimed the tall, good-looking lad, as
he peered on either side of the seat. "Don't go back on me now. You'll
soon have a change of climate, and maybe that will be good for your old
bones."
He settled back, stuck his feet out before him, and gazed about the
room. It was a very much dismantled apartment. In the center was piled
a collection of baseball bats, tennis racquets, boxing gloves, foils,
catching gloves, a football, some running trousers, a couple of
sweaters, and a nondescript collection of books. There were also a
couple of trunks, while, flanking the pile, was the old sofa and the arm
chair. On top of all the alarm clock was ticking comfortably away, as
happy as though moving from one college dormitory to another was a most
matter-of-fact proceeding. The hands pointed to one o'clock, when it
was, as Tom ascertained by looking at his watch, barely nine; but a
little thing like that did not seem to give the clock any concern.
"I do hope Phil can rig up some scheme so we can move the sofa,"
murmured the occupant of the easy chair. "That's like part of ourselves
now. It will make the new room seem more like home. I wonder where Sid
can be? This is more of his moving than it is Phil's, but Sid always
manages to get out of hard work. Phil is anxious to room with us, I
guess."
Tom Parsons stretched his legs out a little farther, and let his gaze
once more roam about the room. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, as
his eye caught sight of something on the wall.
"Came near forgetting that," he said as he arose, amid another cloud of
dust from the chair, and removed from a spot on the wall, behind the
door, the picture of a pretty girl. "I never put that there," he went
on, as he wiped the dust from the photograph, and turned it over to look
at the name written on the back--Madge Tyler. "Sid must have done that
for a joke. He thought I'd forget it, and leave it for some freshy to
make fun of. Not much! I got ahead of you that time, Sid, my boy. Queer
how he doesn't like girls," added Tom, with the air of an expert. "Well,
probably it's just as well he doesn't take too much to Madge, for----"
But Tom's musings, which were getting rather sentimental, were
interrupted by the entrance of Phil Clinton. Phil had under one arm some
boards, while in one hand he carried a hammer, and in the other some
nails.
"Just the cheese," he announced. "Now we'll have this thing fixed up in
jig time. Hasn't Sid Henderson showed up?"
"No. I guess he's over to the new room. He took his books and left some
time ago. Maybe he's studying."
"Not much!" exclaimed Phil. "I wish he'd come and help move. Some of
this stuff is his."
"Most of it is. I'm glad you're going to help, or I'd never have the
courage to shift. Well, let's get the sofa fixed. I doubt if we can make
it hold together, though."
"Yes, we can. I'll show you."
Phil went to work in earnest. He was an athletic-looking chap, of
generous size, and one of the best runners at Randall College. He was
one of Tom Parson's particular chums, the other being Sidney Henderson.
Tom and Sid, of whom more will be told presently, had roomed together
during their freshman year at Randall, and Phil's apartment was not far
away. Toward the close of the term the three boys were much together,
Phil spending more time in the room of Tom and Sid than he did in his
own. In this way he became very much attached to the old chair and sofa,
which formed two of the choicest possessions of the lads.
With the opening of the new term, when the freshmen had become more or
less dignified sophomores, Phil had proposed that he and his two chums
shift to a large room in the west dormitory, where the majority of the
sophomores and juniors lived. His plan was enthusiastically adopted by
Sid and Tom, and, as soon as they had arrived at college, ready for the
beginning of the term, moving day had been instituted. But Sid, after
helping Tom get their possessions in a pile in the middle of the room
they were about to leave, had disappeared, and Phil, enthusiastic about
getting his two best friends into an apartment with him, had come over
to aid Tom.
"Now, you see," went on Phil, "I'll nail this board along the front edge
of the sofa--so."
"But don't you think, old chap--and I know you'll excuse my mentioning
it," said Tom--"don't you think that it rather spoils, well, we'll say
the artistic beauty of it?"
"Artistic fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Phil. "Of course it does! But it's
the only way to hold it together."
"One could, I suppose, put a sort of drapery--flounce, I believe, is
the proper word--over it," went on Tom. "That would hide the unsightly
board."
"I don't care whether it's hid or not!" exclaimed Phil. "But if you
don't get down here and help hold this end, while I nail the other, I
know what's going to happen."
"What?" asked Tom, as he carefully put in his pocket the photograph of
the pretty girl.
"Well, you'll have a mob of howling freshmen in here, and there won't be
any sofa left."
"Perish the thought!" cried Tom, and then he set to work in earnest
helping Phil.
"Now a board on the back," said the amateur carpenter, and for a few
minutes he hammered vigorously.
"It's a regular anvil chorus," remarked Tom.
"Here, no knocking!" exclaimed his chum. "Now let's see if it's stiff
enough."
Anxiously he raised one end of the sofa. There was no sagging in the
middle this time.
"It's like putting a new keel on a ship!" cried the inventor of the
scheme gaily. "A few more nails, and it will do. Do you think the chair
will stand shifting?"
"Oh, yes. That's like the 'one-horse shay'--it'll hold together until it
flies apart by spontaneous combustion. You needn't worry about that."
Phil proceeded to drive a few more nails in the boards he had attached
to the front and back of the sofa. Then he got up to admire his work.
"I call that pretty good, Tom; don't you?" he asked.
The two chums drew back to the farther side of the room to get the
effect.
"Yes, I guess with a ruffle or two, a little insertion, and a bit of old
lace, it will hide the fractured places, Phil. It's a pity----"
"Here, what are you scoundrels doing to my old sofa?" exclaimed a voice.
"Vandals! How dare you spoil that antique?" and another lad entered the
room. "Say, why didn't you put new legs on it, insert new springs, and
cover it over while you were about it?" he asked sarcastically.
"Because, you old fossil, we _had_ to put those boards on," said Tom.
"Where have you been, Sid? Phil and I were getting ready to move without
you."
"Oh, I've been cleaning out the new room we're going into. The juniors
who were there last term must have tried to raise vegetables in it,
judging by the amount of dirt I found. But it's all right now."
"Good! Now if you'll catch hold here, we'll move the old sofa first. The
rest will be easy."
Sid Henderson grasped the head of the couch, while Tom took the foot.
Phil acted as general manager, and steadied it on the side.
"Easy now, easy boys," he cautioned, as they moved toward the door
leading to the hall.
CHAPTER II
LANGRIDGE HAS A TUMBLE
Out into the corridor went the three lads with the old sofa. It was no
easy task, but they managed to get it out of the east dormitory, where
they had roomed for a year, and then they began the journey across a
stretch of grass to the west building.
The appearance of the three boys, carrying a dilapidated sofa, as
tenderly as though it were some rare and fragile object, attracted the
attention of a crowd of students. The lads swarmed over to surround the
movers.
"Well, would you look at that!" exclaimed Holman, otherwise known as
"Holly," Cross. "Have you had a fire, Tom?"
"No; they've been to an auction sale of antiques, and this is the bed
on which Louis XIV slept the night before he ate the Welsh rarebit,"
declared Ed Kerr, the champion catcher on the 'varsity nine. "Why don't
you label it, Phil, so a fellow would know what it is?"
"You get out of the way!" exclaimed Tom good-naturedly.
"This side up, with care. Store in a cool, dry place, and water
frequently," quoted Billy Housenlager, who rejoiced in the title of
Dutch. "Here, let me see if I can jump over it while it is in motion,"
he added, for he was full of "horseplay," and always anxious to try
something new. He took a running start, and was about to leap full upon
the sofa, when, at a signal from Phil, the three chums set the spliced
piece of furniture on the grass.
"What's the matter?" asked Dutch indignantly. "Can't you give a fellow a
chance to practice jumping? I can beat Grasshopper Backus, now."
"You can not!" exclaimed the owner of the title. "I'm sure to make the
track team this term, and then you'll see what----"
"Say," put in another student, "my uncle says that when he was here he
used to jump----"
"Drown him!"
"Stuff grass in his mouth!"
"Make him eat the horsehair in the sofa!"
"Swallow it!"
"Chew it up!"
These were some of the cries of derision that greeted Ford Fenton's
mention of his uncle. The gentleman had once been a coach at Randall,
and a very good one, too, but his nephew was doing much to spoil his
reputation.
For, at every chance he got, and at times when there was no opportunity
but such as he made, Ford would quote his aforesaid uncle, upon any and
all subjects, to the no small disapproval of his college mates. So they
had gotten into the habit of "rigging" him every time he mentioned his
relative.
"I don't care," Ford said, when the chorus of exclamations had ceased.
"My uncle----"
But he got no further, for the students made a rush for him and buried
him out of sight in a pile of wriggling arms and legs.
"First down; ten yards to gain!" yelled some one.
"Come on, now's our chance," said Tom. "First thing we know they'll do
that to our sofa, and then it will be all up with the poor old thing.
Let's move on."
Once more the chums took up their burden, and walked toward the west
dormitory. By this time the throng had done with punishing poor Fenton,
and once more turned its attention to the movers.
"Going to split it up for firewood?" called Ed Kerr.
"No; it's full of germs, and they're going to dig 'em out and use 'em
in the biology class," suggested Dan Woodhouse, who was more commonly
called Kindlings.
"Maybe they're going to make a folding bed of it," came from Bricktop
Molloy. "Come on, fellows, let's investigate."
The crowd of fun-loving students hurried after the three lads carrying
the sofa.
"They're coming!" exclaimed Tom.
"Let's drop the sofa and cut for it?" proposed Sid. "They'll make a
rough house if they catch us."
"I'm not going to desert the sofa!" exclaimed Tom.
"Nor I. I'll stick by you--'I will stand at thy right hand, and guard
the bridge with thee,'" quoted Phil. "But if we put a little more speed
on we can get to the dormitory, and that will be sanctuary, I guess.
Come on; run, fellows!"
It was awkward work, running and carrying a clumsy sofa, but they
managed it. Holly Cross caught up to them as they were at the door of
the building.
"Ah, let's have the old ark," he pleaded. "We'll make a bonfire of it,
and circle about it to-night, after we haze some freshies. Give us the
old relic, Tom."
"Not on your life!" exclaimed the crack pitcher of the 'varsity nine.
"This is our choicest possession, Holly. It goes wherever we go."
"Well, it won't go much longer," observed Holly. "One of its legs is
coming off."
Almost as he spoke one of the sofa legs, probably jarred loose by the
unaccustomed rapid rate of progress, fell to the dormitory steps.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" exclaimed Phil. "It's beginning to fall apart,
Tom."
"Never mind, you can nail it on. Sid, you carry the leg. The stairs are
so narrow that only two of us can manage the sofa. Phil and I will do
that, and you come in back to catch me, in case I fall."
Seeing that there was no chance to get the sofa away from its owners, to
make a college holiday with it, Holly Cross and his friends turned back
to look for another source of sport. Sid picked up the leg, and then,
with Phil mounting the stairs backward, carrying one end, and Tom
advancing and holding the other, the task was begun. Up the stairs they
went, and when they were half way there appeared at the head of the
flight two lads. They were both well dressed in expensive clothes, and
there was about them that indefinable air of "sportiness" which is so
easily recognizable but hard to acquire.
"Hello, what's this?" asked the foremost of the two, as he looked down
on the approaching cavalcade and the sofa. "Here, what do you fellows
mean by blocking up the stairway? Don't you know that no tradesmen are
allowed in this entrance?"
"Who are you talking to?" demanded Phil, not seeing who was speaking.
"It's Langridge," explained Tom, as he looked up and saw his former
enemy and rival.
"Oh, it's Parsons, Henderson and Clinton," went on Fred Langridge, as he
recognized some fellow students. Then, without apologizing for his
former words, he went on: "I say, you fellows will have to back down and
let me and Gerhart past. We are in a hurry."
"So are we," said Tom shortly. "I guess you can wait until we come up."
"No, I can't!" exclaimed Langridge. "You back up! You have no right to
block up the stairs this way!"
"Well, I guess we have," put in Sid. "We're moving some of our things to
our new room."
Langridge, followed by the other well-dressed lad, came down a few
steps. He saw the old sofa, and exclaimed:
"What! Do you mean to say that you fellows are moving that fuzzy-wuzzy
piece of architecture into this dormitory? I'll not stand for it! I'll
complain to the proctor! Why, it's full of disease germs!"
"Yes, and you're full of prune juice!" cried Phil Clinton, unable to
stand the arrogant words and manner of Langridge.
"Don't get gay with me!" exclaimed Tom's former rival.
"I'll lay you five to three that you can't jump over their heads and
clear the sofa," put in the other student, whom Langridge had called
Gerhart. "Do any of you fellows want to bet?" he asked rather
sneeringly, as he looked down at Tom, Phil and Sid.
"I guess not," answered Tom, good-naturedly enough.
"Ah, you're not sports, I see," rejoined Gerhart. "I thought you said
this was a sporty college, Langridge?"
"So it is, when you strike the right crowd, and not a lot of greasy
digs," was the answer. "I say, are you chaps going to move back and let
me and Gerhart pass?" he went on.
"No, we're not," replied Phil shortly. "You can wait until we get up. Go
on back now, Langridge, and we'll soon have this out of the way."
"Burning it up would be the best method of getting it out of the way,"
declared Langridge, still with that sneer in his voice. "I never saw
such a disgraceful piece of furniture. What do you fellows want with it?
Surely you're not going to put it in your room."
"That's just what we are going to do," declared Sid. "We wouldn't part
with this for a good bit, would we, fellows?"
"Nope," chorused Phil and Tom.
"Did it come over in the _Mayflower_?" asked Gerhart. "I'm willing to
bet ten to one that if you think it's an antique that you're stuck. How
about it?"
"You're quite a sport, aren't you, freshie?" asked Phil suddenly, for he
knew that the new student must belong to the first-year class.
"Of course I'm a sport, but if you go to calling names I'll show you
that I'm something else!" exclaimed the other fiercely. "If you want to
do a little something in the boxing line----"
"Dry up!" hastily advised Langridge in a whisper. "You're a freshman,
and you know it. They're sophomores, and so am I. Don't get gay."
"Well, they needn't insult a gentleman."
"Tell us when one's around, and we'll be on our good behavior," spoke
Phil with a laugh.
"Come, now, are you fellows going to back down and let us pass?" asked
Langridge hastily.
"Like the old guard, we die, but never surrender," spoke Tom. "We're not
going to back down, Langridge. It's easier for you to go back than for
us."
"Well, I'm not going to do it. You have no right to move your stuff in
here, anyhow. The rooms are furnished."
"We want our old chair and sofa," explained Sid.
"I should think you'd be ashamed to bring such truck into a decent
college," expostulated Langridge. "It looks as if it had been through a
fire in a second-hand store."
"That'll do you," remarked Phil. "This is our sofa, and we'll do as we
please with it."
"You won't block up my way, that's one thing you won't do," declared
Langridge fiercely. "I'm going down. Look out! If I upset you fellows it
won't be my fault."
He started down the stairs, and managed to squeeze past Phil, who,
though he did not like Langridge, moved as far to one side as possible
in the narrow passage. As Langridge passed the sofa he struck it with a
little cane he carried. A cloud of dust arose.
"Whew!" exclaimed the sporty lad. "Smell the germs! Wow! Get me some
disinfectant, Gerhart."
Whether it was the action of Langridge in hitting the sofa that caused
Tom to stagger, or whether Phil was unsteady on his feet and pushed on
the sofa, did not develop. At any rate, just as Langridge came opposite
to Tom on the stairs, the former pitcher was jostled against his rival.
Langridge stumbled, tried to save himself by clutching at Tom and then
at the sofa. He missed both, and, with a loud exclamation, plunged down
head first, bringing up with a resounding thud at the bottom.
CHAPTER III
PHIL GETS BAD NEWS
For a moment after he struck the bottom of the stairs, Fred Langridge
remained stretched out, making no move. Tom Parsons feared his
former rival was badly hurt, and was about to call to Sid to go and
investigate, when Langridge got up. His face showed the rage he felt,
though it was characteristic of him that he first brushed the dust off
his clothes. He was nothing if not neat about his person.
"What did you do that for?" he cried to Tom.
"Do what?"
"Shove me down like that. I might have broken my neck. As it is, I've
wrenched my ankle."
"I didn't do it," said Tom. "If you'd stayed up where you were, until we
got past with the sofa, it wouldn't have happened. You shouldn't have
tried to pass us."
"I shouldn't, eh? Well, I guess I've got as good a right on these stairs
as you fellows have, with your musty old furniture. You oughtn't be
allowed to have it. You deliberately pushed me down, Tom Parsons, and
I'll fix you for it!" and Langridge limped about, exaggerating the hurt
to his ankle.
"I didn't push you!" exclaimed Tom. "It was an accident that you jostled
against me."
"I didn't jostle against you. You deliberately leaned against me to save
yourself from falling."
"I did not! And if you----"
"You brought it on yourself, Langridge," interrupted Phil. "You got
fresh and hit the sofa, and that made you lose your balance. It's your
own fault."
"You mind your business! When I want you to speak I'll address my
remarks to you. I'm talking to Parsons now, and I tell him----"
"You needn't take the trouble to tell me anything," declared Tom. "I
don't want to hear you. I've told you it was an accident, and if you
insist that it was done purposely I have only to say that you are
intimating that I am not telling the truth. In that case there can be
but one thing to do, and I'll do it as soon as I've gotten this sofa
into our room."
There was an obvious meaning in Tom's words, and Langridge had no
trouble in fathoming it. He did not care to come to a personal encounter
with Tom.
"Well, if you fellows hadn't been moving that measly old sofa in, this
would never have happened," growled Langridge as he limped away. "Come
on, Gerhart. We'll find more congenial company."
"I guess I'll wait until they get the sofa out of the way," remarked the
new chum Langridge appeared to have picked up.
Tom, Sid and Phil resumed their journey, and the old piece of furniture
was carried to the upper hall. The stairs were clear, and Gerhart
descended. As he passed Tom he looked at him with something of a sneer
on his face, and remarked:
"I'll lay you even money that Langridge can whip you in a fair fight."
"Why, you little freshie," exclaimed Phil, "fair fights are the only
kind we have at Randall! We don't have 'em very often, but every time we
do Tom puts the kibosh all over your friend Langridge. Another thing--it
isn't healthy for freshies to bet too much. They might go broke," and
with these words of advice Phil caught up his end of the sofa and Tom
the other. It was soon in the room the three sophomore chums had
selected.
"Now for the chair and the rest of the truck," called Phil.
"Oh, let's rest a bit," suggested Sid, as he stretched out on the sofa.
No sooner had he reached a reclining position than he sat up suddenly.
"Wow!" he cried. "What in the name of the labors of Hercules is that?"
He drew from the back of his coat a long nail.
"Why, I must have left it on the sofa when I fixed it," said Phil
innocently. "I wondered what had become of it."
"You needn't wonder any longer," spoke Sid ruefully. "Tom, take a look,
that's a good chap, and see if there's a very big hole in my back. I
think my lungs are punctured."
"Not a bit of it, from the way you let out that yell," said Phil. "That
will teach you not to take a siesta during moving operations."
"Not much damage done," Tom reported with a laugh, as he inspected his
chum's coat. "Come on now, let's get the rest of it done."
"Do you think it will be safe to leave the sofa here?" asked Sid.
"Perhaps I'd better stay and keep guard over it, while you fellows fetch
the rest of the things in."
"Well, listen to him!" burst out Phil. "What harm will come to it here?"
"Why, Langridge and that sporty new chum of his may slip in and damage
it."
"Say, if they can damage this sofa any more than it is now, I'd like to
see them," spoke Tom. "I defy even the fingers of Father Time himself to
work further havoc. No, most noble Anthony, the sofa will be perfectly
safe here."
"I wouldn't say as much for you, if Langridge gets a chance at you,"
said Phil to Tom. "You know what tricks he played on you last term."
"Yes; but I guess he's had his lesson," remarked Tom. "Now come on, and
we'll finish up."
The three lads went back to the room formerly occupied by Sid and Tom
during their freshman year. The chums were pretty much of a size, and
they made an interesting picture as they strolled across the campus.
Tom Parsons had come to Randall College the term previous, from the
town of Northville, where his parents lived. He did not care to follow
his father's occupation of farming, and so had decided on a college
education, using part of his own money to pay his way.
As told in the first volume of this series, entitled "The Rival
Pitchers," Tom had no sooner reached Randall than he incurred the enmity
of Fred Langridge, a rich youth from Chicago, who was manager of the
'varsity ball nine, and also its pitcher. Tom had ambitions to fill that
position himself, and as soon as Langridge learned this, he was more
than ever the enemy of the country lad.
Randall College was located near the town of Haddonfield, in one of our
middle Western States, and was on the shore of Sunny River, not far from
Lake Tonoka. Within a comparatively short distance from Randall were two
other institutions of learning. One was Boxer Hall, and the other
Fairview Institute, a co-educational academy. These three colleges had
formed the Tonoka Lake League in athletics, and the rivalry on the
gridiron and diamond, as well as in milder forms of sport--rowing,
tennis, basketball and hockey--ran high. When Tom arrived there was much
talk of baseball, and Randall had a good nine in prospect. Her hopes ran
toward winning the Lake League pennant in baseball, but as her nine had
been at the bottom of the list for several seasons, the chances were
dubious.
After many hardships, not a few of which Langridge was responsible for,
Tom got a chance to play on the 'varsity nine. Langridge was a good
pitcher, but he secretly drank and smoked, to say nothing of staying up
late nights to gamble; and so he was not in good form. When it came to
the crucial moment he could not "make good," and Tom was put in his
place, in the pitching box, and by phenomenal work won the deciding
game. This made Randall champion of the baseball league, and Tom Parsons
was hailed as a hero, Langridge being supplanted as pitcher and manager.
But if Langridge and some of the latter's set were his enemies, Tom had
many friends, not the least among whom were Phil Clinton and Sidney
Henderson, to say nothing of Miss Madge Tyler. This young lady and
Langridge were, at first, very good friends, but when Madge found out
what sort of a chap the rich city youth was, she broke friendship with
him, and Tom had the pleasure of taking her to more than one college
affair. This, of course, did not add to the good feeling between Tom and
Langridge.
With the winning of the championship game, baseball came practically to
an end at Randall, as well as at the other colleges in the Tonoka Lake
League, and a sort of truce was patched up between Tom and Langridge.
The summer vacation soon came, and the students scattered to their
homes. Tom and his two chums agreed to room together during the term
which opens with this story, and it may be mentioned incidentally
that both Tom and Phil hoped to play on the football eleven. Phil
was practically assured of a place, for he had played the game at a
preparatory school, and had as good a reputation in regard to filling
the position of quarter-back as Tom had in the pitching box.
It was due to a great catch which Phil made in the deciding championship
game, almost as much as to Tom's wonderful pitching, that Randall had
the banner, and Captain Holly Cross, of the eleven, had marked Phil
for one of his men during the season which was about to open on the
gridiron.
"Now we'll take the old armchair over," proposed Tom, when he and his
chums had reached the room they were vacating. "I guess I can manage
that alone. You fellows carry some of the other paraphernalia."
Phil and Sid prepared to load themselves down with gloves, balls, bats,
foils and various articles of sport. Before he left with the chair, Tom
observed Sid looking behind the door as if for something.
"It's not there, old man. I took it down," said the pitcher, and he
patted the pocket that held Madge Tyler's photograph. "You thought you'd
make me forget it, didn't you?"
"Do you mean to say you're going to stick girls' pictures up in our new
room?" asked Sid.
"Not girls' pictures, in general," replied Tom, "but one in particular."
"You make me tired!" exclaimed Sid, who cared little for feminine
society.
"You needn't look at it if you don't like," responded his chum. "But I
call her a pretty girl, don't you, Phil?"
"She's an all right looker," answered the other with such enthusiasm
that Tom glanced at him a trifle sharply.
"She's no prettier than Phil's sister," declared Sid.
"Have you a sister?" demanded Tom.
Phil bowed in assent.
"Why didn't you say so before?" asked Tom grumblingly.
"Because you never asked me."
"Where is she?"
"Going to Fairview this term, I believe."
"So is Madge--I mean Miss Tyler," burst out Tom. "I'd like to meet her,
Phil; your sister, I mean."
"Say, you're a regular Mormon!" expostulated Sid. "If we're going to get
this moving done, let's do it, and not talk about girls. You fellows
make me sick!"
"Wait until he gets bitten by the bug," said Tom with a laugh, as he
shouldered the easy chair.
It took the lads several trips to transfer all their possessions, but at
last it was accomplished, and they sat in the new room in the midst of
"confusion worse confounded," as Holly Cross remarked when he looked in
on them. Their goods were scattered all over, and the three beds in the
room were piled high with them.
"It's a much nicer place than the old room," declared Tom.
"It will be when we get it fixed up," added Phil.
"I s'pose that means sticking a lot of girls' photos on the wall, some
of those crazy banners they embroidered for you, a lot of ribbons, and
such truck," commented Sid disgustedly. "I tell you fellows one thing,
though, and that is if you go to cluttering up this room too much, I'll
have something to say. I'm not going to live in a cozy corner, nor yet
a den. I want a decent room."
"Oh, you can have one wall space to decorate in any style you like,"
said Tom.
"Yes; he'll probably adopt the early English or the late French style,"
declared Phil, "and have nothing but a calendar on it. Well, every one
to his notion. Hello, the alarm clock has stopped," and he began to
shake it vigorously.
"Easy with it!" cried Tom. "Do you want to jar the insides loose?"
"You can't hurt this clock," declared Phil, and, as if to prove his
words, the fussy little timepiece began ticking away again, as loudly
and insistingly as ever. "Well, let's get the room into some decent kind
of shape, and then I'm going out and see what the prospects are for
football," he went on. "I want to make that quarter-back position if I
have to train nights and early mornings."
"Oh, you'll get it, all right," declared Tom. "I wish I was as sure of a
place as you are. I believe----"
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sid opened it. In the hall
stood one of the college messengers.
"Hello, Wallops; what have you there?" asked Tom.
"Telegram for Mr. Phil Clinton."
"Hand it over," spoke Sid, taking the envelope from the youth.
"Probably it's a proposition for him to manage one of the big college
football teams."
As Wallops, who, like nearly everything and every one else about the
college had a nickname, departed down the corridor, Phil opened the
missive. It was brief, but his face paled as he read it.
"Bad news?" asked Tom quickly.
"My mother is quite ill, and they will have to operate on her to save
her life," said Phil slowly.
CHAPTER IV
FOOTBALL PRACTICE
There was a moment of silence in the room. No one cared to speak, for,
though Tom and Sid felt their hearts filled with sympathy for Phil, they
did not know what to say. It was curiously quiet--oppressively so. The
fussy little alarm clock, on the table piled high with books, was
ticking away, as if eager to call attention to itself. Indeed, it did
succeed in a measure, for Tom remarked gently.
"Seems to me that sounds louder than it did in the other room."
"There are more echoes here," spoke Sid, also quietly. "It will be
different when we get the things up."
The spell had been broken. Each one breathed a sigh of relief. Phil,
whose face had become strangely white, stared down at the telegram in
his hand. The paper rustled loudly--almost as loudly as the clock
ticked. Tom spoke again.
"Is it--is it something sudden?" he asked. "Was she all right when you
left home to come back to college?"
"Not exactly all right," answered Phil, and he seemed to be carefully
picking his words, so slowly did he speak. "She had been in poor health
for some time, and we thought a change of air would do her good. So
father took her to Florida--a place near Palm Beach. I came on here, and
I hoped to hear good news. Now--now----" He could not proceed, and
turned away.
Tom coughed unnecessarily loud, and Sid seemed to have suddenly
developed a most tremendous cold. He had to go to the window to look
out, probably to see if it was getting colder. In doing so he knocked
from a chair a football, which bounded erratically about the room, as
the spherical pigskin always does bounce. The movements of it attracted
the attention of all, and mercifully came as a relief to their
overwrought nerves.
"Well," said Sid, as he blew his nose with seemingly needless violence,
"I suppose you'll have to give up football now; for you'll go to
Florida."
"Yes," said Phil simply, "of course I shall go. I think I'll wire dad
first, though, and tell him I'm going to start."
"I'll take the message to the telegraph office for you," offered Tom
eagerly.
"No, let me go," begged Sid. "I can run faster than you, Tom."
"That's a nice thing to say, especially when I'm going to try for end on
the 'varsity eleven," said Tom a bit reproachfully. "Don't let Holly
Cross or Coach Lighton hear you say that, or I'll be down and out. I'm
none too good in my running, I know, but I'm going to practice."
"Oh, I guess you'll make out all right," commented Phil. "I'm much
obliged to you fellows. I guess I can take the message myself, though,"
and he sat down at the littered table, pushing the things aside, to
write the dispatch.
Tom and Sid said little when Phil went out to take the telegram to the
office. The two chums, one on the old patched sofa and the other in the
creaking chair, which at every movement sent up a cloud of dust from the
ancient cushion, maintained a solemn silence. Tom did remark once:
"Tough luck, isn't it?"
To which Sid made reply:
"That's what it is."
But, then, to be understood, you don't need to talk much under such
circumstances. In a little while footsteps were heard along the
corridor.
"Here he comes!" exclaimed Tom, and he arose from the sofa with such
haste that the new boards, which Phil had put on to strengthen it,
seemed likely to snap off.
"Go easy on that, will you?" begged Sid. "Do you want to break it?"
"No," answered Tom meekly, and he fell to arranging his books, a task
which Sid supplemented by piling the sporting goods indiscriminately in
a corner. They wanted to be busy when Phil came in.
"Whew! You fellows are raising a terrible dust!" exclaimed Phil. He
seemed more at his ease now. In grief there is nothing so diverting as
action, and now that he had sent his telegram, and hoped to be able to
see his mother shortly, it made the bad news a little easier to bear.
"Yes," spoke Tom; "it's Sid. He raises a dust every time he gets
into or out of that chair. I really think we ought to send it to the
upholsterer's and have it renovated."
"There'd be nothing left of it," declared Phil. "Better let well enough
alone. It'll last for some years yet--as long as we are in Randall."
"Did you send the message?" blurted out Tom.
"Yes, and now I'll wait for an answer."
"Is it--will they have to--I mean--of course there's some danger in an
operation," stammered Sid, blushing like a girl.
"Yes," admitted Phil gravely. "It is very dangerous. I don't exactly
know what it is, but before she went away our family doctor said that if
it came to an operation it would be a serious one. Now--now it seems
that it's time for it. Dear old mother--I--I hope----" He was struggling
with himself. "Oh, hang it all!" he suddenly burst out. "Let's get this
room to rights. If--if I go away I'll have the nightmare thinking what
shape it's in. Let's fix up a bit, and then go out and take a walk. Then
it will be grub time. After that we'll go out and see if any more
fellows have arrived."
It was good advice--just the thing needed to take their attention off
Phil's grief, and they fell to work with a will. In a short time the
room began to look something like those they had left.
"Here, what are you sticking up over there?" called Sid to Tom, as he
detected the latter in the act of tacking something on the wall.
"I'm putting up a photograph," said Tom.
"A girl's, I'll bet you a new hat."
"Yes," said Tom simply. "Why, you old anchorite, haven't I a right to?
It's a pity you wouldn't get a girl yourself!"
"Humph! I'd like to see myself," murmured Sid, as he carefully tacked up
a calendar and a couple of football pictures.
"Oh, that's Miss Tyler's picture, isn't it?" spoke Phil.
"Yes."
Phil was sorting his books when from a volume of Pliny there dropped a
photograph. Tom spied it.
"Ah, ha!" he exclaimed. "It seems that I'm not the only one to have
girls' pictures. Say, but she's a good-looker, all right!"
"She's my sister Ruth," said Phil quietly.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," came quickly from Tom. "I--I didn't know."
"That's all right," spoke Phil genially. "I believe she is considered
quite pretty. I was going to put her picture up on the wall, but since
Sid objects to----"
"What's that?" cried the amateur misogynist. "Say, you can put that
picture up on my side of the room if you like, Phil. I--I don't object
to--to all girls' pictures; it's only--well--er--she's your sister--put
her picture where you like," and he fairly glared at Tom.
"Wonders will never cease," quoted the 'varsity pitcher. "Your sister
has worked a miracle, Phil."
"You dry up!" commanded Sid. "All I ask is, don't make the room a
photograph gallery. There's reason in all things. Go ahead, Phil."
"The next thing he'll be wanting will be to have an introduction to your
sister," commented Tom.
"I'd like to have both you fellows meet her," said Phil gravely. "You
probably would have, only for this--this trouble of mother's. Now I
suppose sis will have to leave Fairview and go to Palm Beach with me. I
must take a run over this evening, and see her. She'll be all broken
up." It was not much of a journey to Fairview, a railroad was well as a
trolley line connecting the town of that name with Haddonfield.
The room was soon fitted up in fairly good shape, though the three chums
promised that they would make a number of changes in time. They went to
dinner together, meeting at the table many of their former classmates,
and seeing an unusually large number of freshmen.
"There'll be plenty of hazing this term," commented Tom.
"Yes, I guess we'll have our hands full," added Sid.
Old and new students continued to arrive all that day. After reporting
to the proper officials of the college there was nothing for them to
do, save to stroll about, as lectures would not begin until the next
morning, and then only preliminary classes would be formed.
"I think I'll go down to the office and see if any telegram has arrived
for me," said Phil, as he and his chums were strolling across the
campus.
"I hope you get good news," spoke Tom. "We'll wait for you in the room,
and help you pack if you have to go."
"Thanks," was Phil's answer as he walked away.
"Well, Tom, I suppose you're going to be with us this fall?" asked Holly
Cross, captain of the football eleven, as he spied Tom and Sid.
"I am if I can make it. What do you think?"
"Well, we've got plenty of good material for ends, and of course we want
the best, and----"
"Oh, I understand," said Tom with a laugh. "I'm not asking any favors. I
had my honors this spring on the diamond. But I'm going to try, just the
same."
"I hope you make it," said Holly fervently. "We'll have some try-out
practice the last of this week. Where's Phil? I've about decided on him
for quarter-back."
"I don't believe he can play," remarked Sid.
"Not play!" cried Holly.
Then they told him, and the captain was quite broken up over the news.
"Well," he said finally, "all we can hope is that his mother gets better
in time for him to get into the game with us. We want to do the same
thing to Boxer Hall and Fairview at football as we did in baseball. I do
hope Phil can play."
"So do we," came from Tom, as he and Sid continued on to their room.
It was half an hour before Phil came in, and the time seemed three times
as long to the two chums in their new apartment. When he entered the
room both gazed apprehensively at him. There was a different look on
Phil's face than there had been.
"Well?" asked Tom, and his voice seemed very loud.
"Dad doesn't want me to come," was Phil's answer.
"Not come--why? Is it too----"
"Well, they've decided to postpone the operation," went on Phil. "It
seems that she's a little better, and there may be a chance. Anyhow, dad
thinks if sis and I came down it would only worry mother, and make her
think she was getting worse, and that would be bad. So I'll not go to
Florida."
"Then it's good news?" asked Sid.
"Yes, much better than I dared to hope. Maybe she'll get well without
an operation. I feel fine, now. I'm going over to Fairview and tell
my sister. Dad asked me to let her know. I feel ten years younger,
fellows!"
"So do we!" cried Tom, and he seized his chum's hand.
"Let's go out and haze a couple of dozen freshmen," proposed Sid
eagerly.
"You bloodthirsty old rascal!" commented Phil. "Let the poor freshies
alone. They'll get all that's coming to them, all right. Well, I'm off.
Hold down the room, you two."
Tom and Sid spent the evening in their apartment, after Phil had
received permission to go to Fairview, Tom having entrusted him with a
message to Madge Tyler. The two chums had a number of invitations to
assist in hazing freshmen, but declined.
"We don't want to do it without Phil," said Tom, and this loyal view was
shared by Sid.
Phil came back late that night, or, rather, early the next morning, for
it was past midnight when he got to Randall College.
"Your friend Madge sends word that she hopes you'll take her to the
opening game of the football season," said Phil to Tom, as he was
undressing.
"Did you see her?" inquired Tom eagerly.
"Of course. Ruth sent for her. She's all you said she was, Tom."
"Oh!" spoke Tom in a curious voice, and then he was strangely silent.
For Phil was a good-looking chap, and had plenty of money; and Tom
remembered what friends Madge and Langridge had been. His sleep was not
an untroubled one that night.
Two or three days more of general excitement ensued before matters were
running smoothly at Randall. In that time most of the students had
settled in their new rooms, the freshmen found their places, some were
properly hazed, and that ordeal for others was postponed until a future
date, much to the misery of the fledglings.
"Preliminary football practice to-morrow," announced Phil one
afternoon, as he came in from the gymnasium and found Tom and Sid
studying.
"That's good!" cried Tom. "Are you going to try, Sid?"
"Not this year. I've got to buckle down to studies, I guess. Baseball is
about all I can stand."
"I hear Langridge is out of it, too," said Phil. "His uncle has put a
ban on it. He's got to make good in lessons this term."
"Well, I think the team will be better off without him," commented Sid.
"Not that he's a poor player, but he won't train properly, and that has
a bad effect on the other fellows. It's not fair to them, either. Look
what he did in baseball. We'd have lost the championship if it hadn't
been for Tom."
"Oh, I don't know about that," modestly spoke the hero of the pitching
box.
"Well, turn out in football togs to-morrow," went on Phil. "By the way,
I hear that Langridge's new freshman friend--Gerhart--is going to try
for quarter-back against me."
"What! that fellow who was with him when we were moving our sofa in?"
asked Tom.
"That's the one."
"Humph! Doesn't look as if he was heavy enough for football," commented
Sid.
"You can't tell by the looks of a toad how much hay it can eat," quoted
Phil.
The following afternoon a crowd of sturdy lads, in their football suits,
thronged out on the gridiron, which was the baseball field properly put
in shape. The goal posts had been erected, and Coach Lighton and Captain
Cross were on hand to greet the candidates.
"Now, fellows," said the coach, "we'll just have a little running,
tackling, passing the ball, some simple formations and other exercises
to test your wind and legs. I'll pick out four teams, and you can play
against each other."
CHAPTER V
A CLASH
Ragged work, necessarily, marked the opening of the practice. The ball
was dropped, fumbled, fallen upon, lost, regained, tossed and kicked.
But it all served a purpose, and the coach and captain, with keen eyes,
watched the different candidates. Now and then they gave a word of
advice, cautioning some player about wrong movements, or suggesting a
different method.
Phil had been put in as quarter-back on one scrub team, and Tom, as
left-end, on the same. Phil found his opponent on the opposing eleven to
be none other than Langridge's friend, Gerhart. It did not need much of
an eye to see that Gerhart did not know the game. He would have done
well enough on a small eleven, but he had neither the ability nor the
strength to last through a college contest.
Several times, when it was his rival's turn to pass back the ball, Phil
saw the inefficient work of Gerhart, but he said nothing. He felt that
he was sure of his place on the 'varsity eleven, yet he called to mind
how Langridge had used his influence to keep Tom Parsons from pitching
in the spring.
There was no denying that Langridge had influence with the sporting
crowd, and it was possible that he might exert it in favor of his new
chum and against Phil. But there was one comfort: Langridge was not as
prominent in sports as he had been during the spring term, when he was
manager of the baseball team. He had lost that position because of his
failure to train and play properly, and, too, his uncle, who was his
guardian, had insisted that he pay more attention to studies.
"After all, I don't believe I have much to fear from him," thought Phil.
Then came a scrimmage, and he threw himself into the mass play to
prevent the opposing eleven from gaining.
The practice lasted half an hour, and at the close Coach Lighton and
Captain Cross walked off the field, talking earnestly.
"I wish I knew what they were saying," spoke Phil, as he and Tom
strolled toward the dressing-room.
"Oh, they're saying you're the best ever, Phil."
"Nonsense! They're probably discussing how they can induce you to play."
"Well, how goes it?" called a voice, and they looked back to see
Bricktop Molloy. He was perspiring freely from the hard practice he had
been through at tackle.
"Fine!" cried Tom. "We were just wondering if we would make the
'varsity."
"Sure you will," answered the genial Irish student, who was nothing if
not encouraging. Perhaps it was because he was sure himself of playing
on the first team that he was so confident.
"What did you think of Gerhart at quarter?" asked Tom, for the benefit
of his chum.
"I didn't notice him much," answered Bricktop, as he ruffled his red
hair. "Seemed to me to be a bit sloppy, though; and that won't do."
Phil did not say anything, but he looked relieved.
"Too bad you're not going to play, Sid, old chap," remarked Tom in the
room that night, when the three chums were together. "You don't know
what you miss."
"Oh, yes, I do," was the answer, and Sid looked up from the depths of
the chair, closing his Greek book. "The day has gone by when I want to
have twenty-one husky lads trying to shove my backbone through my
stomach. I don't mind baseball, but I draw the line at posing as a
candidate for a broken neck or a dislocated shoulder. Not any in mine,
thank you."
"You're a namby-pamby milksop!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh and a pat on
the back, that took all the sting from the words. "Worse than that,
you're a----"
"Well, I don't stick girls' pictures, and banners worked in silk by the
aforesaid damsels, all over the room," and Sid looked with disapproval
on an emblem which Tom had placed on the wall that day. It was a silk
flag of Randall colors, which Madge Tyler had given to him.
"You're a misguided, crusty, hard-shelled troglodytic specimen of a
misogynist!" exclaimed Tom.
"Thanks, fair sir, for the compliment," and Sid arose to bow
elaborately.
Phil and Tom talked football until Sid begged them to cease, as he
wanted to study, and, though it was hard work, they managed to do so.
Soon they were poring over their books, and all that was heard in the
room was the occasional rattle of paper, mingling with the ticking of
the clock.
"Well, I'm done for to-night," announced Sid, after an hour's silence.
"I'm going to get up early and bone away. Hand me that alarm clock, Tom,
and I'll set it for five."
"Don't!" begged Phil.
"Why not?"
"Because if you do it will go off about one o'clock in the morning. Set
it at eleven, and by the law of averages it ought to go off at five. Try
it and see. I never saw such a clock as that. It's a most perverse
specimen."
Phil's prediction proved, on trial, to be correct, so Sid set the clock
at eleven, and went to bed, where, a little later, Tom and Phil
followed.
There was more football practice the next afternoon, and also the
following day. Tom was doing better than he expected, but his speed was
not yet equal to the work that would be required of him.
"We need quick ends," said the coach in talking to the candidates during
a lull in practice. "You ends must get down the field like lightning on
kicks, and we're going to do a good deal of kicking this year."
Tom felt that he would have to spend some extra time running, both on
the gymnasium track and across country. His wind needed a little
attention, and he was not a lad to favor himself. He wanted to be the
best end on the team. He spoke to the coach about it, and was advised to
run every chance he got.
"If you do, I can practically promise you a place on the eleven," said
Mr. Lighton.
"Who's going to be quarter-back?" Tom could not help asking.
"I don't know," was the frank answer. "A few days ago I would have said
Phil Clinton; but Gerhart, the new man, has been doing some excellent
work recently. I'll be able to tell in a few days."
Somehow Tom felt a little apprehensive for Phil. He fancied he could see
the hand of Langridge at work in favor of his freshman chum.
The matter was unexpectedly settled a few days later. There were two
scrub teams lined up, Tom and Phil being on one, and Gerhart playing at
quarter on the other. There had been some sharp practice, and a halt was
called while the coach gave the men some instructions. As a signal was
about to be given Phil went over to the coach, and, in a spirit of the
utmost fairness, complained that the opposing center was continually
offending in the matter of playing off side. Phil suggested that Mr.
Lighton warn him quietly.
The coach nodded comprehendingly, and started to speak a word of
caution. As he passed over to the opposing side, he saw Gerhart stooping
to receive the ball.
"Gerhart," he said, "I think you would improve if you would hold your
arms a little closer to your body. Then the ball will come in contact
with your hands and body at the same time, and there is less chance for
a fumble. Here, I'll show you."
Now, when Mr. Lighton started he had no idea whatever of speaking to
Gerhart. It was the center he had in mind, but he never missed a chance
to coach a player. He came quite close to the quarter-back, and was
indicating the position he meant him to assume, when the coach suddenly
started back.
"Gerhart, you've been smoking!" he exclaimed, and he sniffed the air
suspiciously.
"I have not!" was the indignant answer.
"Don't deny it," was the retort of the coach. "I know the smell of
cigarettes too well. You may go to the side lines. Shipman, you come in
at quarter," and he motioned to another player.
"Mr. Lighton," began Gerhart, "I promise----"
"It's too late to promise now," was the answer the coach made. "At the
beginning of practice I warned you all that if you broke training rules
you couldn't play. If you do it now, what will you do later on?"
"I assure you, I--er--I only took a few----"
"Shipman," was all Mr. Lighton said, and then he spoke to the center.
Gerhart withdrew from the practice, and walked slowly from the gridiron.
As he left the field he cast a black look at Phil, who, all unconscious
of it, was waiting for the play to be resumed. But Tom saw it.
Fifteen minutes more marked the close of work for the day. As Tom and
Phil were hurrying to the dressing-rooms, they were met by Langridge and
Gerhart. The latter still had his football togs on.
"Clinton, why did you tell Lighton I had been smoking?" asked Gerhart in
sharp tones.
"Tell him you had been smoking? Why, I didn't know you had been."
"Yes, you did. I saw you whispering to him, and then he came over and
called me down."
"You're mistaken."
"I am not! I saw you!"
Phil recollected that he had whispered to the coach. But he could not,
in decency, tell what it was about.
"I never mentioned your name to the coach," he said. "Nor did I speak of
smoking."
"I know better!" snapped Gerhart. "I saw you."
"I can only repeat that I did not."
"I say you did! You're a----"
Phil's face reddened. This insult, and from a freshman, was more than he
could bear. He sprang at Gerhart with clenched fists, and would have
knocked him down, only Tom clasped his friend's arm.
"Not here! Not here!" he pleaded. "You can't fight here, Phil!"
"Somewhere else, then!" exclaimed Phil. "He shan't insult me like that!"
"Of course not," spoke Tom soothingly, for he, too, resented the words
and manner of the freshman. "Langridge, I'll see you about this later
if you're agreeable," he added significantly, "and will act for your
friend."
"Of course," said Tom's former rival easily. "I guess my friend is
willing," and then the two cronies strolled off.
CHAPTER VI
PROFESSOR TINES OBJECTS
"Are you going to fight him?" asked Langridge of Gerhart, when they were
beyond the hearing of Tom and Phil.
"Of course! I owe him something for being instrumental in getting me put
out of the game."
"Are you sure he did?"
"Certainly. Didn't I see him sneak up to Lighton and put him wise to the
fact that I'd taken a few whiffs? I only smoked half a cigarette in the
dressing-room, but Clinton must have spied on me."
"That's what Parsons did on me, last term, and I got dumped for it.
There isn't much to this athletic business, anyway. I don't see why you
go in for it."
"Well, I do, but I'm not going to stand for Clinton butting in the way
he did. I wish he had come at me. You'd seen the prettiest fight you
ever witnessed."
"I don't doubt it," spoke Langridge dryly.
"What do you mean?" asked his crony, struck by some hidden meaning in
the words.
"I mean that Clinton would just about have wiped up the field with you."
"I'll lay you ten to one he wouldn't! I've taken boxing lessons from a
professional," and Gerhart seemed to swell up.
"Pooh! That's nothing," declared Langridge. "Phil Clinton has boxed with
professionals, and beaten them, too. We had a little friendly mill here
last term. It was on the quiet, so don't say anything about it. Phil
went up against a heavy hitter and knocked him out in four rounds."
"He did?" and Gerhart spoke in a curiously quiet voice.
"Sure thing. I just mention this to show that you won't have a very easy
thing of it."
There was silence between the two for several seconds. Then Gerhart
asked:
"Do you think he wants me to apologize?"
"Would you?" asked his chum, and he looked sharply at him.
"Well, I'm not a fool. If he's as good as you say he is, there's no use
in me having my face smashed just for fun. I think he gave me away, and
nothing he can say will change it. Only I don't mind saying to him that
I was mistaken."
"I think you're sensible there," was Langridge's comment. "It would be
a one-sided fight. Shall I tell him you apologize?"
"Have you got to make it as bald as that? Can't you say I was mistaken?"
"I don't know. I'll try. Clinton is one of those fellows who don't
believe in half-measures. You leave it to me. I'll fix it up. I don't
want to see you knocked out so early in the term. Besides--well, never
mind now."
"What is it?" asked Gerhart quickly.
"Well, I was going to say we'd get square on him some other way."
"That's what we will!" came eagerly from the deposed quarter-back. "I
counted on playing football this term, and he's to blame if I can't."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," came from Langridge. "I never knew
Clinton to lie. Maybe what he says is true."
"I don't believe it. I think he informed on me, and I always will. Do
you think there's a chance for me to get back?"
"No. Lighton is too strict. It's all up with you."
"Then I'll have my revenge on Phil Clinton, that's all."
"And I'll help you," added Langridge eagerly. "I haven't any use for him
and his crowd. He pushed me down stairs the other day, and I owe him
one for that. We'll work together against him. What do you say?"
"It's a go!" and they shook hands over the mean bargain.
"Then you'll fix it up with him?" asked Gerhart after a pause.
"Yes, leave it to me."
So that is how it was, that, a couple of hours later, Tom and Phil
received a call from Langridge. He seemed quite at his ease, in spite of
the feeling that existed between himself and the two chums.
"I suppose you know what I've come for," he said easily.
"We can guess," spoke Tom. "Take a seat," and he motioned to the old
sofa.
"No, thanks--not on that. It looks as if it would collapse. I don't see
why you fellows have such beastly furniture. It's frowsy."
"We value it for the associations," said Phil simply. "If you don't like
it----"
"Oh, it's all right, if you care for it. Every one to his notion, as the
poet says. But I came on my friend Gerhart's account. He says he was
mistaken about you, Clinton."
"Does that mean he apologizes?" asked Phil stiffly.
"Of course, you old fire-eater," said Langridge, lighting a cigarette.
"Is it satisfactory?"
"Yes; but tell him to be more careful in the future."
"Oh, I guess he will be. He's heard of your reputation," and Langridge
blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
"I'll take him on, if he thinks Phil is too much for him," said Tom with
a laugh.
"No, thanks; he's satisfied, but it's hard lines that he can't play,"
observed the bearer of the apology.
"That's not my fault," said Phil.
"No, I suppose not. Well, I'll be going," and, having filled the room
with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom
and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would
have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door.
"Whew!" cried Tom. "Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had
been disinfected!"
"Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like
a good pipe or a cigar, but I'm blessed if I can go those coffin nails!
Ah, that air smells good," and he breathed in deep of the September air
at the window.
Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the "sporty
freshman," as he began to be called. There was some disappointment,
among the students who liked a "mill," but as there were sure to be
fights later in the term, they consoled themselves.
Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded
out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to
regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though
Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect.
Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the 'varsity (which was the goal
of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub.
"But I'll get even with Clinton for this," he said more than once to his
crony, who eagerly assented.
Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast
developing into a "rattling good player," as Holly Cross said. Tom was
not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran
mile after mile to better his wind and speed.
"You're coming on," said Coach Lighton enthusiastically. "I think you'll
do, Tom. Keep it up."
There had been particularly hard practice one afternoon, and word went
down the line for some kicking. The backs fell to it with vigor, and the
pigskin was "booted" all over the field.
"Now for a good try at goal!" called the coach, as the ball was passed
to Holly Cross, who was playing at full-back. He drew back his foot,
and his shoe made quite a dent in the side of the ball. But, as often
occurs, the kick was not a success. The spheroid went to the side,
sailing low, and out of bounds.
As it happened, Professor Emerson Tines, who had been dubbed "Pitchfork"
the very first time the students heard his name, was crossing the field
at that moment. He was looking at a book of Greek, and paying little
attention to whither his steps led. The ball was coming with terrific
speed directly at his back.
"Look out, professor!" yelled a score of voices.
Mr. Tines did look, but not in the right direction. He merely gazed
ahead, and seeing nothing, and being totally oblivious to the football
practice, he resumed his reading.
The next moment, with considerable speed, the pigskin struck him full in
the back. It caught him just as he had lifted one foot to avoid a stone,
and his balance was none too good. Down he went in a heap, his book
flying off on a tangent.
[Illustration: "The pigskin struck him full in the back"]
"Wow!" exclaimed Holly Cross, who had been the innocent cause of the
downfall. "I'll be in for it now."
"Keep mum, everybody, as to who did it," proposed Phil. "The whole crowd
will shoulder the blame."
The players started on the run toward the professor, who still reclined
in a sprawling attitude on the ground. He was the least liked of all
the faculty, yet the lads could do no less than go to his assistance.
"Maybe he's hurt," said Tom.
"He's too tough for that," was the opinion of Bricktop.
Before the crowd of players reached the prostrate teacher he had arisen.
His face was first red and then pale by turns, so great was his rage. He
looked at the dirt on his clothes, and then at his book, lying face
downward some distance away.
"Young gentlemen!" he cried in his sternest voice. "Young gentlemen, I
object to this! Most emphatically do I object! You have gone entirely
too far! It is disgraceful! You shall hear further of this! You may all
report to me in half an hour in my room! I most seriously object! It is
disgraceful that such conduct should be allowed at any college! I shall
speak to Dr. Churchill and enter a most strenuous objection! The idea!"
He replaced his glasses, which had fallen off, and accepted his book
that Tom picked up.
"Don't forget," he added severely. "I shall expect you all to report to
me in half an hour."
At that moment Dr. Albertus Churchill, the aged and dignified head of
the college, and Mr. Andrew Zane, a proctor, came strolling along.
"Ah! I shall report your disgraceful conduct to Dr. Churchill at once,"
added Professor Tines, as he walked toward the venerable, white-haired
doctor. "I shall enter my strongest objection to the continuance of
football here."
There were blank looks on the faces of the players.
CHAPTER VII
THE FIRST LINE-UP
Evidently Dr. Churchill surmised that something unusual had occurred,
for he changed his slow pace to a faster gait as he approached the
football squad, in front of which stood Professor Tines, traces of anger
still on his unpleasant face.
"Ah, young gentlemen, at football practice, I see," remarked the doctor,
smiling. "I trust there is the prospect of a good team, Mr. Lighton. I
was very well pleased with the manner in which the baseball nine
acquitted itself, and I trust that at the more strenuous sport the
colors of Randall will not be trailed in the dust."
"Not if I can help it, sir; nor the boys, either," replied the coach.
"That's right," added Captain Holly Cross.
"I see you also take an interest in the sport," went on Dr. Churchill
to Professor Tines. "I am glad the members of the faculty lend their
presence to sports. Nothing is so ennobling----"
"Sir," cried Professor Tines, unable to contain himself any longer, "I
have been grossly insulted to-day. I wish to enter a most emphatic
protest against the continuance of football at this college. But a
moment ago, as I was crossing the field, reading this Greek volume, I
was knocked over by the ball. I now formally demand that football be
abolished."
Dr. Churchill looked surprised.
"I want the guilty one punished," went on Professor Tines. "Who kicked
that ball at me?"
"Yes, young gentlemen, who did it?" repeated the proctor, for he thought
it was time for him to take a hand. "I demand to know!"
"It wasn't any one in particular, sir," answered Coach Lighton,
determined to defend his lads. "It was done on a new play we were
trying, and it would be hard to say----"
"I think perhaps I had better investigate," said Dr. Churchill. "Young
gentlemen, kindly report at my study in half an hour."
"If you please, sir," spoke Phil Clinton, "Professor Tines asked us to
call and see him."
"Ah, I did not know that. Then I waive my right----"
"No, I waive mine," interrupted the Latin teacher, and he smoothed out
some of the pages in the Greek book.
"Perhaps we had better have them all up to my office," proposed the
proctor. "It is larger."
"A good idea," said the president of Randall. "Gentlemen, you may
report to the proctor in half an hour. I like to see the students
indulge in sports, but when it comes to such rough play that the life of
one of my teachers is endangered, it is time to call a halt."
"His life wasn't in any danger," murmured Tom.
"Hush!" whispered the coach. "Leave it to me, and it will come out all
right."
"But if they abolish football!" exclaimed Phil. "That will be too much!
We'll revolt!"
"They'll not abolish it. I'll make some explanation."
Dr. Churchill, Professor Tines, and the proctor moved away, leaving a
very disconsolate group of football candidates on the gridiron.
"Do you suppose Pitchfork will prevail upon Moses to make us stop the
game?" asked Jerry Jackson. "Moses," as has been explained, being the
students' designation of Dr. Churchill.
"We'll get up a counter protest to Pitchfork's if they do," added his
brother, Joe Jackson.
"Hurrah for the Jersey twins!" exclaimed Tom. The two brothers, who
looked so much alike that it was difficult to distinguish them, were
from the "Garden State," and thus had gained their nickname.
"Well, that sure was an unlucky kick of mine," came from Holly Cross
sorrowfully.
"Nonsense! You're not to blame," said Kindlings Woodhouse. "It might
have happened to any of us. We'll all hang together."
"Or else we'll hang separately, as one of the gifted signers of the
Fourth of July proclamation put it," added Ed Kerr. "Well, let's go take
our medicine like little soldiers."
In somewhat dubious silence they filed up to the proctor's office. It
was an unusual sight to see the entire football squad thus in parade,
and scores of students came from their rooms to look on.
Dr. Churchill and Professor Tines were on hand to conduct the
investigation. The latter stated his case at some length, and reiterated
his demand that football be abolished. In support of his contention he
quoted statistics to show how dangerous the game was, how many had been
killed at it, and how often innocent spectators, like himself, were
sometimes hurt, though, he added, he would never willingly be a witness
of such a brutal sport.
"Well, young gentlemen, what have you to say for yourselves?" asked Dr.
Churchill, and Tom thought he could detect a twinkle in the president's
eye.
Then Coach Lighton, who was a wise young man, began a defense. He told
what a fine game football was, how it brought out all that was best in a
lad, and how sorry the entire squad was that any indignity had been put
upon Professor Tines. He was held in high esteem by all the students,
Mr. Lighton said, which was true enough, though esteem and regard are
very different.
Finally the coach, without having hinted in the least who had kicked the
ball that knocked the professor down, offered, on behalf of the team, to
present a written apology, signed by every member of the squad.
"I'm sure nothing can be more fair than that," declared Dr. Churchill.
"I admit that I should be sorry to see football abolished here,
Professor Tines."
Professor Tines had gained his point, however, and was satisfied. He had
made himself very important, and had, as he supposed, vindicated his
dignity. The apology was then and there drawn up by the proctor, and
signed by the students.
"I must ask for one stipulation," said the still indignant instructor.
"I must insist that, hereafter, when I, or any other member of the
faculty approaches, all indiscriminate knocking or kicking of balls
cease until we have passed on. In this way all danger will be avoided."
"We agree to that," said Mr. Lighton quickly, and the incident was
considered closed. But Professor Tines, if he had only known it, was the
most disliked instructor in college from then on. He had been hated
before, but now the venom was bitter against him.
"We're well out of that," remarked Tom to Phil, as they went to their
room, having gotten rid of their football togs. "I wonder what fun
Pitchfork has in life, anyhow?"
"Reading Latin and Greek, I guess. That reminds me, I must bone away a
bit myself to-night. I guess Sid is in," he added, as he heard some one
moving about in the room.
They entered to find their chum standing on a chair, reaching up to one
of the silken banners Tom had hung with such pride.
"Here, you old anchorite! What are you doing?" cried Phil.
"Why, I'm trying to make this room look decent," said Sid. "You've got
it so cluttered up that I can't stand it! Isn't it enough to have
pictures stuck all over?"
"Here, you let that banner alone!" cried Tom, and he gave such a jerk to
the chair on which Sid was standing that the objector to things artistic
toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.
"I'll punch your head!" he cried to Tom, who promptly ensconced himself
behind the bed.
"Hurt yourself?" asked Phil innocently. "If you did it's a judgment on
you, misogynist that you are."
"You dry up!" growled Sid, as he rubbed his shins.
Then, peace having finally been restored, they all began studying,
while waiting for the summons to supper. When the bell rang, Phil and
Tom made a mad rush for the dining-room.
"Football practice gives you a fine appetite," observed Phil.
"I didn't know you fellows needed any inducement to make you eat," spoke
Sid.
"Neither we do," said Tom. "But come on, Phil, if he gets there first
there'll be little left for us, in spite of his gentle words."
"We'll have harder work at practice to-morrow," continued Phil as they
sat down at the table. "It will be the first real line-up, and I'm
anxious to see how I'll do against Shipman."
"He's got Gerhart's place for good, has he?" asked Tom.
"It looks so. Pass the butter, will you? Do you want it all?"
"Not in the least, bright-eyes. Here; have a prune."
"Say, you fellows make me tired," observed Sid.
"What's the matter with you lately, old chap?" asked Tom. "You're as
grumpy as a bear with a sore nose. Has your girl gone back on you?"
"There you go again!" burst out Sid. "Always talking about girls! I
declare, since those pictures and things are up in the room, you two
have gone daffy! I'll have 'em all down, first thing you know."
"If you do, we'll chuck you in the river," promised Phil.
Thus, amid much good-natured banter, though to an outsider it might not
sound so, the supper went on. There was more hazing that night, in which
Phil and Tom had a share, but Sid would not come out, saying he had to
study.
"Come on, Tom," called Phil the next afternoon, "all out for the first
real line-up of the season. I'm going to run the 'varsity against the
scrub, and I want to see how I make out."
"Has the 'varsity eleven all been picked out?" asked Tom anxiously.
"Practically so, though, of course, there will be changes."
"I wonder if I----"
"You're to go at left-end. Come on, and we'll get our togs on."
After a little preliminary practice the two teams were told to line-up
for a short game of fifteen-minute halves. Coach Lighton named those who
were to constitute a provisional 'varsity eleven, and, to his delight,
Tom's name was among the first named. Phil went to quarter, naturally,
and several of Tom's chums found themselves playing with him.
"Now try for quick, snappy work from the start," was the advice of the
coach. "Play as though you meant something, not as if you were going on
a fishing trip, and it didn't matter when you got there."
The ball was put into play. The 'varsity had it, and under the guidance
of Phil Clinton, who gave his signals rapidly, the scrub was fairly
pushed up the field, and a little later the 'varsity had scored a
touchdown. Goal was kicked, and then the lads were ready for another
tussle.
The scrub, by dint of extraordinary hard work, managed to keep the ball
for a considerable time, making the necessary gains by rushes.
"We must hold 'em, fellows!" pleaded Phil, and Captain Holly Cross added
his request to that end, in no uncertain words.
Shipman, the scrub quarter, passed the pigskin to his right half-back,
and the latter hit the line hard. Phil Clinton, seeing an opening, dove
in for a tackle. In some way there was a fumble, and Phil got the ball.
The next instant Jerry Jackson, who was on the 'varsity, slipped and
fell heavily on Phil's right shoulder. The plucky quarter-back stifled a
groan that came to his lips, and then, turning over on his back,
stretched out white and still on the ground.
"Phil's hurt!" cried Holly Cross. "Hold on, fellows!"
Tom bent over his chum. He felt of his shoulder.
"It's dislocated," he said. "We'd better get the doctor for him,
Holly."
CHAPTER VIII
LANGRIDGE AND GERHART PLOT
"Some of you fellows run for Dr. Marshall!" called Mr. Lighton to the
throng that gathered about the prostrate lad.
"I'll go," volunteered Joe Jackson.
"No, let me," said his twin brother. "It was my fault. I slipped and
fell on him."
"It wasn't any fellow's fault in particular," declared the captain. "It
was likely to happen to any one. But suppose you twins both go, and then
we'll be sure to have help. If Dr. Marshall isn't in the college,
telephone to Haddonfield for one. Phil's shoulder must be snapped back
into place."
As the twins started off Phil opened his eyes.
"Hurt much, old chap?" asked Tom, holding his chum's hand.
"No--not--not much," but Phil gritted his teeth as he said it. His
shoulder, with the bunch of padding on it, stood out oddly from the rest
of his body.
"Put some coats under him," ordered the coach. "Shall we carry you
inside, Phil?"
"No; don't move me. Is my arm broken?"
"No; only a dislocation, I guess. You'll be all right in a few days."
"Soon enough to play against Boxer Hall, I hope," said Phil with a faint
smile.
"Of course," declared the coach heartily. "We'll delay the game if
necessary."
"Here comes Dr. Marshall," called Ed Kerr, as the college physician was
seen hurrying across the campus, with the Jersey twins trailing along
behind.
The doctor, after a brief examination, pronounced it a bad dislocation,
but then and there, with the help of the captain and coach, he reduced
it, though the pain, as the bone snapped into place, made Phil sick and
faint. Then they helped him to his room, where he was soon visited by
scores of students, for the quarter-back was a general favorite.
"Now I think I will have to establish a quarantine," declared Dr.
Marshall, when about fifty lads had been in to see how the patient was
progressing. "I don't want you to get a fever from excitement, Clinton.
If you expect to get into the game again inside of two weeks, you must
keep quiet."
"Two weeks!" cried Phil. "If I have to stay out as long as that I'll be
so out of form that I'll be no good."
"Well, we'll see how the ligaments get along," was all the satisfaction
the doctor would give the sufferer.
Tom and Sid remained with their chum, and, after the physician had left,
they made all sorts of insane propositions to Phil with a view of making
him more comfortable.
"Shall I read Greek to you?" offered Sid. "Maybe it would take your mind
off your trouble."
"Greek nothing," replied Phil with a smile. "Haven't I troubles enough
without that?"
"If I had some cheese I would make a Welsh rarebit," Tom said. "I used
to be quite handy at it; not the stringy kind, either."
"Get out, you old rounder!" exclaimed Sid. "Welsh rarebit would be a
fine thing for an invalid, wouldn't it?"
"Well, maybe fried oysters would be better," admitted Tom dubiously. "I
could smuggle some in the room, only the measly things drip so, and
Proc. Zane has been unusually active of late in sending his scouts
around."
"I'll tell you what you can do, if you want to," spoke Phil.
"What's that?" asked Tom eagerly.
"Send word to my sister, over at Fairview. She may hear something about
this, and imagine it's worse than it is. I'd like her to get it
straight. I got a letter from dad to-day, too, saying mother was a
little better. I'd like sis to read it."
"I'll go myself, and start right away!" exclaimed Tom enthusiastically.
"I can get permission easily enough, for I've been doing good work in
class lately. I'll come back on the midnight trolley."
"You're awfully anxious to go, aren't you?" asked Sid.
"Of course," replied Tom. "Why do you speak so?"
"I believe Miss Madge Tyler attends at Fairview," went on Sid to no one
in particular, and there was a mocking smile on his face.
"Oh, you just wait!" cried Tom, shaking his fist at his chum, who sank
down into the depths of the old easy chair, and held up his feet as
fenders to keep the indignant one at a distance. "You'll get yours good
and proper some day."
"Well, if you're going, you'd better start," said Phil. "I forgot,
though. You've never met my sister. That's a go!"
"Can't you give me a note to her?" asked Tom, who was fertile in
expedients where young ladies were concerned.
"I guess so. Lucky it's my left instead of my right shoulder that's out
of business. Give me some paper, Sid."
"Tom doesn't need a note," was the opinion of the amateur woman-hater.
"He'll see Miss Tyler, and she'll introduce him."
"That's so," agreed Tom, as if he had just thought of it. "That will do
first rate. Never mind the note, Phil," and he hurried off, lest
something might occur that would prevent his visit.
He readily obtained permission to go to Fairview Institute, and was soon
hurrying along the river road to catch a trolley car. As he crossed a
bridge over the stream, he heard voices on the farther end. It was dusk,
now, and he could not see who the speakers were. But he heard this
conversation:
"Did you hear about Clinton?"
"Yes; he's laid up with a bad shoulder. Well, it may be just the chance
we want."
"That's odd," thought Tom. "I wonder who they can be? Evidently college
fellows. Yet how can Phil's injury give them the chance they want?"
He kept on, and a moment later came in sight of the speakers. He saw
that they were Fred Langridge and Garvey Gerhart.
"Good evening," said Tom civily enough, for, though he and Langridge
were not on the best of terms, they still spoke.
"Off on a lark?" asked the former pitcher with a sneer. "I thought you
athletic chaps didn't do any dissipating."
"I'm not going to," said Tom shortly, as he passed on.
"Do you suppose he heard what we said?" asked Gerhart, as the shadows
swallowed up Tom.
"No; but it doesn't make much difference. He wouldn't understand. Now,
do you think you can do it?"
"Of course. What I want to do is to keep him laid up for several weeks.
That will give me an opportunity of getting back on the eleven. He was
responsible for me being dropped, and now it's my turn."
"But are you sure it will work?"
"Of course. I know just how to make the stuff. A fellow told me. If we
can substitute it for his regular liniment it will do the trick all
right."
"That part will be easy enough. I can think up a scheme for that. But
will it do him any permanent harm? I shouldn't want to get into
trouble."
"No, it won't harm him any. It will make him so he can't use his arm for
a while, but that's what we want. The effects will pass away in about a
month, just too late to let him get on the eleven."
"All right; if you know what you're doing, I'll help. Now then, where
will we get the stuff?"
"I know all about that part. But let's get off this bridge. It's too
public. Come to a quieter place, where we can talk."
"I know a good place. There's a quiet little joint in town, where we can
get a glass of beer."
"Will it be safe?"
"Sure. Come on," and Langridge and his crony disappeared in the
darkness, talking, meanwhile, of a dastardly plot they had evolved to
disable Phil Clinton.
Tom kept on his way to the trolley.
"I wonder what Langridge and Gerhart meant?" he thought as he quickened
his pace on hearing an approaching car. "Perhaps Gerhart thought he had
a chance to get back on the team, because Phil is laid up. But I don't
believe he has."
But Tom's interpretation of the words he had heard was far from the
truth. Phil Clinton was in grave danger.
CHAPTER IX
SOME GIRLS
Tom thought the fifteen-mile trolley ride to Fairview was an unusually
long one, but, as a matter of fact, it was soon accomplished, for he
caught an express, and about eight o'clock that night arrived in the
town where the co-educational institution was located.
"Now to find Phil's sister," he said half aloud, as he headed for the
college. He knew the way well, for he had been there several times
before in the previous spring, when his team played baseball.
"Hello, Parsons," a voice greeted him as he was walking up the campus.
"Where you bound for?"
The speaker was Frank Sullivan, manager of the Fairview ball team.
"Oh, I just came over to see what sort of a football eleven you were
going to stack up against us this fall," answered Tom easily.
"Not very good, I'm afraid," declared Frank. "We're in pretty bad shape.
Several of our best men have been hurt in practice."
"We've got a few cripples ourselves," said Tom. "Phil Clinton just got
laid up with a bad shoulder."
"Our half-back is a wreck," added Frank.
It is curious, but true, nevertheless, that most football elevens seem
to rejoice in the number of cripples they can boast of. The worse the
men are "banged up," the better those interested in the team seem to
be. It may be that they wish to conceal from other teams their real
condition, and so give the enemy a false idea of their strength. However
that may be, the fact remains.
"So you came over to see how we were doing, eh?" went on Frank. "Well,
not very good, I'm afraid. We expect to be the tailenders this season,"
which was not at all what Frank expected, however, nor did his friends.
But he considered it policy to say so.
"I didn't come over for that alone," said Tom. "I have a message to
Phil's sister. Say, how do you get into the female department of this
shebang, anyhow? What's the proper method of procedure? Do I have to
have the password and a countersign?"
"Pretty nearly. It's like the combination on a safe. The first thing you
will have to do is to go and interview Miss Philock."
"Who's she?"
"The preceptress; and a regular ogress into the bargain. If you pass
muster with her first inspection, you'll have to answer a lot of
categorical questions covering your whole life history. Then, maybe,
she'll consent to take a note from you to the fair damsel."
"Can't I see her?" asked Tom in some dismay, for he had counted on
meeting Madge Tyler.
"See a girl student of Fairview after dark? Why, the idea is
preposterous, my dear sir! Perfectly scandalous!" and Frank gave a fair
imitation of an indignant lady teacher.
"Well, I'll have to send word in," decided Tom, "for I didn't bring a
note."
"Do you know her personally?" asked Frank.
"Who--Miss Philock or Phil's sister?"
"Phil's sister?"
"No, I don't."
"Worse and more of it. I wish you joy of your job. But I'm off. There's
going to be some hazing, and I'm on the committee to provide some extra
tortures for the freshies. So long. Miss Philock has her den in that red
building on your left," and, whistling a merry air, which was utterly
out of keeping with Tom's spirits, Frank Sullivan walked away.
"Well, here goes," said Tom to himself, as he walked up to the residence
of the preceptress and rang the bell.
An elderly servant answered his summons, and looked very much surprised
at observing a good-looking youth standing on the steps. Tom asked to
see Miss Philock, and the servant, after shutting the door, and audibly
locking it, walked away.
"They must be terribly afraid of me," thought Tom, but further musings
were put to an end by the arrival of the preceptress herself.
"What do you want, young man?" she asked, and her voice sounded like
some file rasping and scraping.
"I wish to deliver a message to Miss Ruth Clinton," was Tom's answer.
"Who are you?"
"I am Thomas Parsons, of Randall College."
"Are you any relation to Miss Clinton?"
"No; but I room with her brother, and he was slightly hurt in football
practice to-day. He wanted me to tell her that it was nothing serious.
He also has a letter from his father, that he wished me to deliver."
Miss Philock fairly glared at Tom.
"That is a very ingenious and plausible answer," said the elderly lady
slowly. "I have had many excuses made to me by young gentlemen as
reasons for sending messages to young ladies under my care, but this one
is the most ingenious I have ever received."
"But it's true!" insisted Tom, who perceived that his story was not
believed.
"That's what they all say," was the calm answer of Miss Philock.
Tom was nonplused. He hardly knew what reply to make.
"You are evidently a stranger to our rules," went on Miss Philock. "You
must go away at once, or I shall notify the proctor," and she was about
to close the door.
"But," cried Tom desperately, "I have a message for Miss Ruth Clinton!"
"Are you a relative of hers?" again asked the preceptress coldly.
"No; not exactly," spoke Tom slowly.
"That's the way they all say it," she went on. "If you are not a
relative you can send her no message."
"But can't you tell her what I've told you?" asked the 'varsity pitcher.
"She may worry about her brother, and he wants her to have this letter
from her father."
"How do I know she has a brother?" asked Miss Philock sternly.
"I am telling you."
"Yes, I know," frigidly. "Other young men have called here to see the
young ladies under my charge, and they often pretend to be brothers and
cousins, when they were not."
"I am not pretending."
"I don't know whether you are or not, sir. It has been my experience
that you can never trust a young man. I shall have to bid you good
evening, though I do you the credit to state that your plan is a very
good one. Only, I am too sharp for you, young man. You can send no
message to Miss Clinton or any other young lady student under my
charge."
The door was almost shut. Tom was in despair. At that moment he caught
sight of a girlish figure in the hall behind the preceptress. It was
Madge Tyler.
"Oh, Madge--Miss Tyler!" he cried impulsively, "will you tell Miss
Clinton that her brother is not badly hurt. That is, in case she hears
any rumors. His shoulder is dislocated, but he's all right."
"Why, Mr. Parsons--Tom!" exclaimed the girl in surprise. "What brings
you here?"
"Young man, what do you mean by disobeying my orders in this manner?"
demanded Miss Philock, bristling with anger.
"You didn't tell me not to speak to Miss Tyler," said Tom slyly. And he
smiled mischievously.
"Miss Tyler--do you know her?"
"I am an old friend of hers," insisted Tom quickly, his confidence
coming back.
"Is this true, Miss Tyler?" asked the head instructress.
Madge was a bright girl, and a quick thinker. She at once understood
Tom's predicament, and resolved to help him out. Perhaps it was as much
on her own account as Ruth's--who knows? At any rate, she said:
"Why, Miss Philock, Tom Parsons and I have known each other ever since
we were children. He is a sort of distant relation of mine. Aren't you,
Tom?"
"Ye--yes, Madge," he almost stammered.
"His mother and my mother are second cousins," went on the girl, which
was true enough, though Tom had forgotten it. He did not stop to figure
out just what degree of kinship he bore to Madge. He was satisfied to
have it as it was. Miss Philock turned to Tom.
"If I had known this at first," she said, "I would have allowed you to
send a message to Miss Tyler at once. However strongly young gentlemen
may insist that they are related to my girls, I never believe them. But
if the statement is made by one of my pupils, I never doubt her. In view
of the fact that you have come some distance, you may step into the
parlor, and speak with Miss Tyler for ten minutes--no longer."
She opened the door wider. It was quite a different reception from what
Tom had expected, but he was glad enough to see Madge for even that
brief period. He followed her into the parlor, while Miss Philock passed
down the corridor.
"Oh, Tom, I'm so glad to see you!" exclaimed the girl, and she extended
both hands, which Tom held just as long as he decently could.
"And I'm glad to see you," he declared. "You're looking fine!"
"What's this about Ruth's brother?" she asked.
"It's true. He was hurt at football practice this afternoon, and he was
afraid she'd worry. I told him I'd bring a message to her, and also this
letter. It's from her father, about her mother. Will you give it to
her?"
"Of course. Isn't it too bad about her poor, dear mother? Ruth is such a
sweet girl. Have you ever met her?"
"I haven't had the pleasure."
"I wonder if I'd better introduce you to her," said Madge musingly. "She
is very fascinating, and--er--well----" She looked at Tom and laughed.
"Can you doubt me?" asked Tom, also laughing, and he bowed low, with his
hand on his heart.
"Oh, no! Men--especially young men--are never faithless!" she exclaimed
gaily.
"But how can you present me to her, when the 'ogress,' as I have heard
her called, bars the way?"
"Hush! She may hear you," cautioned Madge. "Oh, we have 'ways that are
dark and tricks that are vain,' I suppose Miss Philock would say. I'll
just send a message by wireless, and Ruth will soon be here. I think it
will be safe. Philly, as we call her, will be in her office by this
time."
Madge stepped to the steam pipes in the room, and with her pencil tapped
several times in a peculiar way.
"That's a code message to Ruth to come down here," she explained.
"It's a great system," complimented Tom. "How do you work it?"
"Oh, we have a code. Each girl has a number, and we just tap that number
on the pipes. You know, you can hear a tap all over the building. Then,
after giving the number, we rap out the message, also by numbers. We
just _had_ to invent it. You boys have ever so many things that we girls
can't, you know. Now tell me all about football. I suppose you will
play?"
"I hope to."
"And Phil--I mean Mr. Clinton, but I call him Phil, because I hear Ruth
speak of him so often--I think he plays half-back, doesn't he?"
"No; quarter," answered Tom.
"I hope to meet him soon," went on Madge. "Ruth has promised---- Oh,
here she is now," she interrupted herself to say. "Come in, Ruth, dear.
Here is a sort of forty-second cousin of mine, with a message about your
brother."
Tom looked up, to see a tall, dark, handsome girl entering the room.
Behind her came a rather stout, light-haired maiden, with laughing blue
eyes.
"A message from my brother!" exclaimed Ruth, and she looked at Tom in a
manner that made his heart beat rather faster than usual.
"Yes, Ruth," went on Madge; "but nothing serious. I'm glad you came
down, too, Sarah, dear. I want you to meet my cousin."
"I brought Sarah because I was afraid I didn't get your pipe message
just right," explained Ruth. "Did you mean you had company you wanted to
share with me, or that there was a letter for me? I couldn't find the
code book."
"It's both," declared Madge with a laugh. "But first let's get the
introductions over with," and she presented Tom to Ruth, and then to
Miss Sarah Warden, her roommate, as well as Ruth's.
"Phil has often spoken to me about you, Miss Clinton," said Tom. "In
fact, he has your picture in our room. It doesn't look like you--I mean
it doesn't do you justice--that is--er--I--I mean----"
"Better stop, Tom," cautioned Madge. "Evidently Ruth has played havoc
with you already. You should study more carefully the art of making
compliments."
"Miss Clinton needs no compliments other than unspoken ones," said Tom,
with an elaborate bow.
"Oh, how prettily said!" exclaimed Miss Warden. "Madge, why didn't you
tell us about your cousin before?"
"It's time enough now," was Madge's rejoinder.
"But what about my brother?" asked Ruth anxiously.
Then Tom told her, and gave her the letter with which Phil had entrusted
him. The young people talked gaily for some minutes longer, and then
Madge, with a look at the clock, said that it was about time Miss
Philock would be back to see that Tom had not overstayed.
"What a short ten minutes!" he exclaimed, and he looked full in Ruth
Clinton's eyes.
"Wasn't it?" she agreed. "However, I hope you will come again--that
is--of course you can't come here, but perhaps we--I--er--that is----"
She stopped in confusion.
"You're almost as bad as Tom was!" declared Madge, and there was just a
little change from her former genial tones. She glanced critically at
Tom.
"I expect to come over again," replied Phil's chum. "And I hope I shall
see you then, Miss Clinton--see all of you, of course," he added
quickly.
"It depends on Miss Philock," said Miss Warden.
"Will you be at the Fairview-Randall football game?" asked Tom.
"Yes," answered Ruth, for he looked at her.
"I shall see you and Madge, then, I hope, only it's a long way off," and
Tom sighed just the least bit.
Madge raised her eyebrows. She might be pardoned for considering that
Tom, in a measure, was her personal property, and now, the first time he
had met Ruth, to hear him talk thus, was something of a shock.
But she was too proud to show more than a mere hint of her feelings, and
Ruth was, for the time being, entirely unaware that her friend was a bit
jealous.
"Here comes Philly!" exclaimed Sarah Warden, as steps were heard
approaching. "You had better go, Mr. Parsons, if you value your
reputation."
"Yes," spoke Madge; "better go, Tom. Sorry you couldn't stay longer."
"So am I," was his answer, and once more he looked straight at Ruth. He
had thought Madge very pretty, and, while he did not waver in the least
in still thinking her most attractive, he had to admit to himself that
Ruth's was of a different style of beauty.
"I'm sure I don't know how to thank you for taking the trouble to bring
me this message and letter," said Phil's sister, as she held out her
hand to Tom. He took it in a firm clasp.
"It was only a pleasure," he said. "Next time I hope to bring better
news."
"Then there is to be a next time?" she asked archly.
"Of course," he replied, and laughed.
"Hurry, Tom, or Miss Philock may order you out," urged Madge. "You've
overstayed your leave as it is, and she may punish us for it. Good-by,"
and she held out her hand. Tom clasped it, but a careful observer, with
a split-second watch, might have noted that he did not hold it quite as
long as he had held Ruth's.
A few minutes later Tom was out on the campus, walking toward the
trolley that would take him to Haddonfield. His brain was in something
of a whirl, and his heart was strangely light.
"My! but she's pretty!" he exclaimed half aloud. "What fine eyes!
I--I---- Oh, well, what's the use of talking to yourself?" And with that
sage reflection Tom pursued his silent way.
Back in the parlor the three girls stood for a moment.
"I like your cousin very much, Madge, dear," said Ruth.
"I shouldn't wonder!" exclaimed Madge shortly, and she turned and
hurried from the room.
Ruth looked at her in some surprise.
"Whatever has come over Madge?" asked Sarah Warden.
"I can't imagine," replied Ruth, and then, with a thoughtful look on her
face, she went to her room.
"Humph! I guess I know," murmured Miss Warden, as she followed.
CHAPTER X
A BOTTLE OF LINIMENT
Tom thought of many things as he walked up the silent campus at Randall,
and prepared to go to his room. He went over again every happening from
the time Miss Philock had grudgingly admitted him at Fairview, until he
had bidden Ruth Clinton good-by. Tom had a very distinct mental picture
of two girls' faces now, whereas, up to that evening, he had had but
one. They were the faces of Ruth and Madge.
"Hang it all!" he burst out, as he was on the steps of the west
dormitory. "I must be falling in love! This will never do, with the
football season about to open. Better cut it out, Tom Parsons!"
His musing was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a figure coming
quickly from the teachers' residence, which was directly in front of the
dormitory building. The figure exclaimed:
"Wait a minute, please."
"Proctor Zane!" whispered Tom to himself. "He thinks he's caught me.
Probably he doesn't know I've got a permit. I'll have some fun with
him."
A moment later the proctor stood beside Tom.
"Are you aware of the hour?" asked Mr. Zane, in what he meant to be a
sarcastic tone.
"I--I believe it's nearly two o'clock," replied Tom. "I will tell you
exactly in a moment, as soon as I look at my watch," and with a flourish
he drew his timepiece from his pocket. "It lacks just eight minutes of
two," he added.
"I didn't ask you the time!" exclaimed the proctor.
"I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you did," spoke Tom.
"Aren't you getting in rather late?" asked the official, as he drew out
his book and prepared to enter Tom's name.
"Well, it might be called late," admitted Tom, as if there was some
doubt about it. "That is, unless you choose to look at it from another
standpoint, and call it early morning. On the whole, I think I prefer
the latter method. It is more comforting, Mr. Zane."
"None of your impertinence, Parsons!" exclaimed the proctor. "You are
out after hours, and you will report to my office directly after chapel.
This matter of students staying out must be broken up."
"I agree with you," went on Tom easily, "but I'm afraid I can't report
to you after chapel to-morrow, or, rather, to-day, Mr. Zane."
"You can't? What do you mean, Parsons?"
"Why, you see, I have to attend a lecture by Moses--I beg your
pardon--Dr. Churchill--at that hour."
The proctor, as Tom could see in the light of the hall lamp, as the rays
streamed from the glass door of the dormitory, looked pained at the
appellation of "Moses" to the venerable head of the college. The boys
all called Dr. Churchill that among themselves, though they meant no
disrespect. They had evolved the title from his name; from the fact
that, as one of the first students put it, the original Moses went up on
a hill to establish the first church--hence Church--Hill; and thus
"Moses."
"I am sure Dr. Churchill will excuse you when he knows the circumstances,
Parsons," went on the proctor with a malicious smile. "You will report to
me for being out after hours without permission."
"Oh, but I have permission," spoke Tom, as he drew out a note which the
president had given him. "I beg your pardon for not mentioning it
before. Very stupid of me, I'm sure," and this time it was Tom's turn to
grin.
The proctor looked at the permit, saw that it was in regular form, and
knew that he was beaten. Without a word he turned and went back to his
apartments, but the look he gave Tom augured no good to the talented
pitcher. Tom went to his room, chuckling to himself.
"Well?" asked Phil, who was not asleep when Tom entered. "Did you see
Ruth?"
"Yes, old chap. It's all right," and Tom told something of his
visit--that is, as much as he thought Phil would care to know. "Your
sister and Miss Tyler are both sorry you were laid up," he went on.
"I guess I'll be out inside of a week," said Phil. "The doc was here a
while ago, and left some new liniment that he said would soften up the
strained muscles and ligaments. I tried some, and I feel better already.
Say, put that blamed alarm clock out in the hall, will you? I can't
sleep with the ticking of it."
Tom did so, and then undressed. He turned the light down low, and, as he
put on his pajamas, he knew, by the regular breathing of Phil, that the
injured lad had fallen into a slumber. Sid, too, was sound asleep. Tom
sat down on the old sofa, sinking far down into the depths of the weak
springs. It creaked like an old man uttering his protest against
rheumatic joints, and, in spite of the new leg Phil had put on and the
strengthening boards, it threatened to collapse. Tom sat there in the
half darkness dreaming--reflecting of his visit to Fairview. He imagined
he could see, in the gloom of a distant corner, a fair face--which one
was it?
"Oh, I've got to cut this out," he remarked, and then he extinguished
the light and got into bed.
The next day was Saturday, and as several of the football squad were a
little lame, Coach Lighton only put them through light practice. Thus
the absence of Phil was not felt. He was much better, the new liniment
working like a charm.
One afternoon, a few days later, Tom and Sid went for a walk, Tom as a
matter of training, and Sid because he wanted to get some specimens for
use in his biology class. They strolled toward the town of Haddonfield,
and shortly after crossing the bridge over Sunny River, saw on the road
ahead of them two figures.
"There are Langridge and Gerhart," remarked Tom.
"Yes," spoke Sid. "They're quite chummy for a freshman and a sophomore.
Langridge tried to save Gerhart from being hazed, but the fellows
wouldn't stand for it."
"I should say not. He ought to take his medicine the same as the rest of
us had to. But look, they don't seem to want to meet us."
As Tom spoke, Langridge and his crony suddenly left the road and took to
the woods which lined the highway on either side.
"I wonder what they did that for?" went on Tom.
"Oh, I guess they don't like our style," was Sid's opinion. "We're not
sporty enough for them."
But it was not for this reason that Langridge and Gerhart did not want
to meet their two schoolmates.
"Lucky we saw them in time," observed Gerhart to the other, as he and
Langridge sneaked along. "They might have asked us why we had gone to
town."
"We shouldn't have told them. I guess they won't pay much attention to
us. Are you going to work the trick to-day?"
"To-night, if I have a chance. There's going to be a meeting of the glee
club, and Tom and Sid both will go. That will leave Phil alone in the
room, and I can get in and make the change."
"Be careful you're not caught. It's a risky thing to do."
"I know it, but it's worth the risk if I can get back on the team.
Besides, it won't hurt Clinton much."
"Well, it's your funeral, not mine. You've got to stand for it all. I
did my share helping plan it. You'll have to take the blame."
"I will. Don't worry."
"But what puzzles me is how Clinton can help knowing it when you change
the liniment. As soon as he uses it he'll see that something is wrong,
and he'll recall that you were in the room."
"Oh, no, he won't. You see, the two liquids are so nearly alike that
it's hard to tell the difference. Then, the beauty of it is that the one
I'm going to put in place of his regular liniment doesn't take effect
for twelve hours. So he'll never connect me with his trouble."
"All right. It's up to you. But come on, let's get out on the road
again. I don't fancy tramping through the woods."
They emerged at a point some distance back of Tom and Sid, who continued
their walk.
"Did I tell you I met Langridge and Gerhart the night I went to see
Phil's sister?" asked Tom after a pause.
"No. What were they doing?"
Tom related the conversation he had heard, and gave his speculations as
to what Gerhart could have meant.
"I guess he's counting on Phil being laid up so long that he can have
his place at quarter-back," was Sid's opinion, and Tom agreed.
The specimens of unfortunate frogs, to be used in biology, were stowed
away in a box Sid carried, and then he and Tom turned back to college.
That night they went to a rehearsal of the glee club.
"Do you mind staying alone, old chap?" asked Tom of Phil as they
prepared to depart.
"Not a bit. Glad to get rid of you. I can move about the room, doc says,
and it isn't so bad as it might be. I'll be glad to be alone, so I can
think."
"All right. So long, then."
It was quiet in the room after Tom and Sid had departed. Phil tried to
read, but he was too nervous, and took no interest in the book. It was
out of the question to study, and, as his shoulder ached, he went back
to bed again. He was in a half doze, when the door opened and Gerhart
entered the room.
"Hope I didn't disturb you, old chap," he began with easy
familiarity--entirely too easy, for a freshman, Phil thought with a
scowl. "Parsons and Henderson out?" asked Gerhart, as if he did not know
it.
"Yes, at the meeting of the glee club," answered Phil shortly.
"That's so. I'd forgotten. Well, here's a note for Parsons. Will you see
that he gets it?" And Gerhart walked over to the table and laid an
envelope down. There was a miscellaneous collection on the table. Among
other things was a bottle of liniment which the doctor had left for
Phil. "I'll just leave the note here," went on Gerhart. "That's a swell
picture over your bed," he said quickly, pointing to a sporting print
that hung over Phil's cot.
Naturally, the injured lad turned to see where Gerhart pointed.
"Oh, it will do very well," he answered. He rather resented this
familiarity on the part of a freshman. Still, as Gerhart had called to
leave a note for Tom, Phil could not order him out, as he felt like
doing. When Phil turned his head back toward the middle of the room the
visitor was standing near the door.
"I guess I'll be going," he said. "Hope you'll be out soon. I'm going to
make another try with Lighton, and see if he won't let me play."
"Um!" spoke Phil, as he turned over to doze.
Gerhart, with an ugly smile on his face, hurried to his room in the east
dormitory. Langridge was waiting for him there.
"Well?" asked the former pitcher.
"It's done!" exulted Gerhart, producing from beneath his coat a bottle
that had contained liniment. "I threw the stuff out, and now I'll get
rid of the bottle. I guess Phil Clinton won't play football any more
this season!" He put the bottle far back on a closet shelf.
"Why don't you throw that away?" asked Langridge.
"I may need it," answered Gerhart. "I'll save it for a while."
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH SOME ONE BECOMES A VICTIM
When Sid and Tom, after glee club practice that night, were ascending
the stairs to their floor, Sid stumbled, about half way up the flight.
To save himself from a fall he put out his left hand, and came down
heavily on it. As he did so he uttered an exclamation of pain.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom.
"Gave my thumb a fierce wrench! It hurts like blazes! Why didn't you
tell me I was going to fall, and I'd have stayed in to-night?" he asked
half humorously.
"I'm not a prophet," replied Tom. "But come on to the room, and we'll
put some arnica on it. I've got some."
Holding his injured thumb tightly in his other hand, Sid finished
climbing the stairs, declaiming, meanwhile, against his bad luck.
"Oh, you're a regular old woman!" exclaimed Tom. "Pretty soon it'll be
so bad that if you see a black cat cross your path you won't go to
lectures."
"I wish I had a black cat to use when I'm due in Latin class," spoke
Sid. "Positively I get more and more rotten at that blamed stuff every
day! I need a black cat, or something. Wow! How my thumb hurts!"
"Get out!" cried Tom. "Many a time on first base I've seen you stop a
hot ball, and never say a word."
"That's different," declared his chum. "Hurry up and get out your
arnica."
"Say, you fellows make noise enough," grumbled Phil at the entrance of
his roommates. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, Sid tried to go upstairs on his hands, and he didn't make out very
well," replied Tom. "I've got two patients on my list now. How are you,
Phil?"
"Oh, so-so. Gerhart was here a while ago."
"He was? What did he want?"
"Left a note for you. It's on the table."
"Humph! Invitation to a little spread he's going to give. Didn't you
fellows get any?" spoke Tom as he read it.
"No; and I don't want one," from Phil.
"And I'm not going," declared Tom. "Gerhart is too much of a cad for
me."
"Insufferably so!" added Phil. "The little puppy gave himself such airs
in here that I wanted to kick him out. But I wasn't going to say
anything, for I thought you might be getting chummy with him, Tom,
seeing that he left the note for you."
"No, indeed. I don't know what his object is, nor why he should invite
me. He and Langridge are a pair, and they can stick together," and Tom
wadded up the invitation and threw it into the waste basket.
"Say, if you're going to get the arnica, I wish you'd get a move on,"
implored Sid, who was stretched out on the sofa. "This hurts me worse
than not knowing my Virgil when I'm called on in Pitchfork's class."
"Then it can't hurt very much," said Phil. "Let's see it."
Sid held out a hand, the thumb of which was beginning to swell.
"Why don't you use some of my liniment instead of arnica for it?"
proposed Phil. "It's just the stuff for a sprain. Here, pour some on
your hand," and Phil, whose left arm was in a sling, handed Sid the
bottle from the table. Sid poured a generous quantity on his thumb.
"Look out for the rug!" exclaimed Tom. "Do you want to spoil it?" for
the liniment was dripping from Sid's hand.
"Spoil it? Spoil this tattered and torn specimen of a fake oriental?"
queried Sid with a laugh. "Say, if we spread molasses on it the thing
couldn't look much worse than it does. I've a good notion to strike for
a new one."
"Don't," begged Phil. "We don't have to clean our feet when we come in
now, and if we had a new rug we'd feel obliged to."
"All right, have it your own way," remarked Tom. "But you've got enough
liniment on there for two thumbs. Here, give me the bottle, and rub
what's on your hand in where the swelling is."
Sid extended the bottle to Tom. Phil, who was holding the cork,
endeavored to insert it during the transfer. The result was a fumble,
the phial slipped from Sid's grasp, Tom made a grab for it, but missed,
and Phil, with only one good hand, could do nothing. The bottle crashed
to the floor and broke, the liniment running about in little rivulets
from a sort of central lake.
"Now you have done it!" exclaimed Tom.
"Who?" demanded Sid.
"You and Phil. Why didn't you let me do the doctoring? You two dopes
aren't able to look after yourselves! Look at the rug now!"
"It was as much your fault as ours," declared Sid. "Why didn't you grab
the bottle?"
"Why didn't you hand it to me? I like your nerve!"
"That's a nice spot on a rug," said Phil in disgust.
"It adds to the beauty," declared Sid. "It just matches the big grease
spot on the other side, which was left as a souvenir by the former
occupants of this study. They must have made a practice of dropping
bread and butter on the floor about eight nights a week. But say, if you
want to do something, Tom, rub this stuff into my thumb, will you?"
"Sure; wait until I pick up this broken glass. I don't want to cut my
feet on it, in case I should take to walking in my sleep."
He was soon vigorously massaging Sid's injured hand, using a piece of
flannel as directed by Phil, and was given a vote of thanks for the
professional manner in which he did it.
"I'm sorry about your liniment, Phil," said Tom. "It's all gone. The
only thing I see for you to do is to cut out that piece of the rug where
it has soaked in, and bind it on your shoulder."
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I won't need any more to-night, and to-morrow
I'll get some more from the doctor."
Sid was the first to awaken the next morning. A peculiar sensation about
his injured hand called his attention to it. He pulled it from under the
covers and glanced at it. Then he tried to bend the fingers. They were
as stiff as pieces of wood. So was the thumb. It was as if it had been
encased in a plaster cast.
"I say, you fellows!" called Sid in some alarm.
"What's the matter?" inquired Tom. "Don't you know it's Sunday, and we
can sleep as long as we like?"
"Look at my hand! Look at it!" exclaimed Sid tragically. "I can't use
it!"
Something in his tones made Tom get up. He strode over to the bed.
"Say, that is mighty queer," he remarked, as he tried to bend Sid's
fingers, and could not. "You must have given yourself a fearful knock."
"Or else that liniment wasn't the right thing for it," added Phil,
sitting up. "Better call the doc."
CHAPTER XII
THE FIRST GAME
The three chums looked at each other. Phil felt of Sid's curiously
stiffened hand.
"I don't see how it could be the liniment," he said. "I've used it right
along. It's the same thing doc gave me. You must have hurt your hand
worse than you thought."
"I guess I did," admitted Sid. So skilfully had Gerhart carried out his
dastardly plot that even his unusual visit to the room of the trio
attached no suspicion to him. The breaking of the bottle of liniment
destroyed one link in the chain against him, and it would be difficult
to trace anything to Gerhart now.
Dr. Marshall looked grave when he saw Sid's hand.
"That is very unusual," he said. "It must have been something you put on
it. The muscles and tendons have been stiffened. There is a drug which
will do that, but it is comparatively rare. It is sometimes used, in
connection with other things, to keep down swelling, but never to soften
a strain. Are you sure you used only the liniment I left for Clinton?"
"That's all," declared Tom.
"Let me see the bottle," said the physician, as he twirled his glasses
by their cord and looked puzzled.
"We can't; it's all gone," explained Phil, and he told of the accident.
"Humph! Very strange," mused Dr. Marshall. "I'm afraid you'll not be
able to use your hand for a month, Henderson. You have every indication
of having used the peculiar drug I speak of, yet you say you did not,
and I don't see how you could have, unless it got in the liniment by
mistake. And that it did not is proved by the fact that Clinton used the
same liniment without any ill effects. Only that Parsons used a rag to
rub with, his hand would be out of commission, too. It is very strange.
I wish there was some of the liquid left. I will see the druggist who
put it up. Possibly he can explain it."
"Well, I'm glad I didn't put any on my shoulder," said Phil. "It would
have been all up with me and football, then."
"It certainly would," admitted Dr. Marshall. "Let me look at your
dislocation."
"When can I get into the game again?" asked Phil anxiously, after the
inspection.
"Humph! Well, I think by the middle of the week. It is getting along
better than I expected. Yes, if you pad it well you may go into light
practice to-morrow, and play in a game the end of the week."
"Good!" cried Phil. "Then's when we tackle Fairview Institute for the
first game of the season!"
The next day a notice was posted on the bulletin board in the gymnasium,
stating that the 'varsity eleven would line up against the scrub that
afternoon in secret practice. Then followed a list of names of those
selected to play on the first team. It was as follows:
_Left-end_ TOM PARSONS
_Left-tackle_ ED KERR
_Left-guard_ BOB MOLLOY
_Center_ SAM LOOPER
_Right-guard_ PETE BACKUS
_Right-tackle_ BILLY HOUSENLAGER
_Right-end_ JOE JACKSON
_Quarter-back_ PHIL CLINTON
_Right half-back_ DAN WOODHOUSE
_Left half-back_ JERRY JACKSON
_Full-back_ HOLLY CROSS
"Hurrah, Tom! You're at left-end!" cried Phil, who, with his chum, was
reading the bulletin.
"I'm glad of it. Are you all right for practice?"
"Sure. Come on; let's get into our togs."
On the outer fringe of football players stood Langridge and Gerhart.
There was surprise on their faces at the sight of Phil getting ready to
play.
"Something went wrong," whispered Langridge to his crony. "Your scheme
didn't work."
"I see it didn't," admitted Gerhart with a scowl. "I wonder where the
slip was?"
But when he heard of the peculiar ailment from which Sid Henderson
suffered, Gerhart knew.
"I lost that chance," he said to Langridge, "but I may see another to
get square with Clinton, and, when I do, I'll not fail. It's too late,
maybe, for me to get in the game now, but I'll put him out of it, and
don't you forget it!"
Phil was a little stiff in practice, but he soon warmed up, and the
'varsity eleven played the scrub "all over the field."
"That's what I like to see," complimented the coach. "Now, boys, play
that way against Fairview on Saturday, and you'll open the season with
a victory. I want you to win. Then we'll have a better chance for the
championship. The schedule is different from the baseball one, you know.
We don't play so many games with Boxer Hall and Fairview as we did in
the spring, consequently each one counts more. Now I'm going to give
you some individual instruction."
Which the coach did very thoroughly, getting at the weak spots in each
man's playing, and commenting wisely on it, at the same time showing him
how he ought to play his position. There was practice in passing the
ball, falling on it, kicking and tackling.
"We want to do considerable work in the forward pass and the on-side
kick this season," the coach went on. "I think you are doing very well.
Parsons, don't forget to put all the speed you can into your runs, when
getting down on kicks.
"You Jersey twins don't want to be watching each other so. I know you
are fond of one another, but try to forget that you are brothers, and be
more lively in the game."
Jerry and Joe Jackson joined in the laugh that followed.
"As for you, Snail Looper," continued Coach Lighton, giving the center
the name he had earned from his habit of prowling about nights and
moving at slow speed, "you are doing fairly well, but be a little
quicker. Try to forget that you're a relative of the _Helix Mollusca_.
You backs, get into plays on the jump, and take advantage of the
momentum. That's the way to smash through the line. Now then, we'll try
signals again. Clinton, keep a cool head. Nothing is worse than getting
your signals mixed, and you fellows, if you don't understand exactly
what the play is, call for the signal to be repeated. That will save
costly fumbles. Now line up again."
They went through the remainder of the practice with a snap and vim that
did the heart of the coach and the captain good. The scrub team was
pretty well worn out when a halt was called.
"Do you think you will beat Fairview?" asked Ford Fenton of Tom a little
later, when the left-end and Phil were on their way to supper, after a
refreshing shower bath.
"I hope so, Ford. But you never can tell. Football is pretty much a
gamble."
"Yes, I suppose so. But my uncle says----"
"Say, are you going to keep that up this term?" demanded Phil wearily.
"If you are, I'm going to apply to the courts for an injunction against
you and your uncle."
"Well," continued Fenton with an injured air, "he was football coach
here for some time, and my uncle says----"
"There he goes again!" cried Tom. "Step on him, Phil!"
But Ford, with a reproachful look, turned aside.
"I don't see why there's such a prejudice against my uncle," he murmured
to himself. But there wasn't. It was against the manner in which the
nephew ceaselessly harped on what his relative said, though Ford was
never allowed to tell what it was.
The Randall eleven was fairly on edge when they indulged in light
practice Saturday morning, preparatory to leaving for Fairview, where
the first game of the season was to take place.
"Feel fit, Tom?" asked Sid, who had to carry his left hand in a sling.
Dr. Marshall had been unable to learn anything from the druggist that
put up the liniment, and the cause for the queer stiffness remained
undiscovered.
"As fit as a fiddle," replied the lad. "How about you, Phil?"
"I'm all to the Swiss cheese, as the poet had it. Is it about time to
start?"
"Nearly. We're going in a special trolley. Does your shoulder pain you
any?"
"Not a bit."
"I suppose--er--that is--er--your sister will be at the game?" ventured
Tom.
"Of course. She's as daffy about it as I am. If she had been a boy she'd
have played. Miss Tyler will be there, of course?" Phil questioned in
turn.
"I don't know--I suppose so," answered Tom. "Oh, of course. She and your
sister will probably go together."
"Yes, they're great chums. I wonder why I didn't get a letter from dad
to-day? He promised to write every night. I ought to have received one.
I'd like to know how my mother is."
"Well, no news is good news," quoted Tom. "Let's start. I get nervous
when I have to sit around."
There was a large crowd on the grandstand at the Fairview gridiron when
the Randall team arrived. The seats were rapidly filling up, and when, a
little later, the visiting eleven trotted out for practice, they were
received with a burst of cheers.
"What's the matter with Randall?" demanded Bean Perkins, who had been
christened "Shouter" from the foghorn quality of his tones. He generally
led the college cheering and singing. Back came the usual reply that
nothing whatever ailed Randall.
"There's a good bunch out," observed Tom to Phil as they passed the ball
back and forth. "Look at the girls! My, what a lot of them!"
"And all pretty, too," added Phil. "At least, I know one who is."
"Who?"
"Miss Tyler."
"I know another," spoke the left-end.
"Who's that?"
"Your sister. She's prettier than the photograph."
"You'd better tell her so."
"I did."
"Whew! It doesn't take you long to get down to business. But come on.
They're going to line up for practice," and the two ran over to join
their teammates.
What a mass of color the grandstands and bleachers presented! Mingled
with the youths and men were girls and women in bright dresses, waving
brighter-hued flags. There were pretty girls with long horns, tied with
streamers of one college or the other. There were more pretty girls with
long canes, from which flew ribbons of yellow and maroon--Randall's
colors. There were grave men who wore tiny footballs on their coat
lapels, a knot of ribbon denoting with which college they sided.
Massed in one stand were the cheering students of Randall, bent on
making themselves heard above the songs and yells of their rivals. Nor
were the girls of Fairview at all backward in giving vent to their
enthusiasm. They had songs and yells of their own, and, under the
leadership of Madge Tyler, were making themselves heard.
Tom, in catching a long kick, ran close to the stand where the Fairview
girls were massed. Madge was down in front, getting ready to lead them
in a song.
"Hello!" cried Tom to her, as he booted the pigskin back to Ed Kerr.
"Sorry I can't cheer for you this time!" called Madge brightly.
"Well, I'm sorry we will have to push the Fairview boys off the field,"
retorted Tom.
"Oh, are you going to do that?" asked a girl behind Madge, and Tom, who
had been vainly looking for her, saw Ruth Clinton.
"Sorry, but we have to," he replied. "Aren't you ashamed to cheer
against your own brother?"
"Oh, I guess Phil is able to look after himself," said Ruth. "Is his
shoulder all right, Mr. Parsons?"
"Doing nicely."
Just then the referee's whistle blew to summon the players from
practice.
"I'll see you after the game," called Tom, and as he glanced from Ruth
to Madge, he saw the latter regarding him rather curiously from her
brown eyes. With a queer feeling about the region where he imagined his
heart to be, he ran across the field.
"Remember--fast, snappy play!" was the last advice from Coach Lighton.
"You're going to win, boys. Don't forget that!"
From the stand where the Randall supporters were gathered came that
enthusing song--the song they always sang at a big game--"_Aut vincere
aut mori_"--"Either we conquer or we die!"
"Keep cool and smash through 'em," spoke Captain Cross to his players,
as the referee and other officials took their places.
It was Fairview's kick-off, and a moment later the ball came sailing
through the air. Holly Cross caught it, and, well protected by
interference, began to rush it back. But the Fairview players, by
amazing good play, managed to get through, and Holly was downed after a
run back of twenty yards.
"Now, boys, all together!" called Phil, as he eagerly got into place
behind big Snail Looper, who was bending over the ball. Then the
quarter-back rattled off a string of signals for Jerry Jackson, the left
half-back, to take the ball through the opposing left tackle and end.
Back came the ball, accurately snapped by the center. Jerry Jackson
was on the alert and took it from Phil as he passed him on the run.
Kindlings Woodhouse smashed in to make a hole for his brother back, who
closely followed. Captain Cross, on the jump, took care of the opposing
left-end, and with a crash that was heard on the grandstand, one of the
Jersey twins hit the line. The game was fairly begun.
CHAPTER XIII
SMASHING THE LINE
"First down!" came the encouraging cry, when the mass of players had
become disentangled, and Jerry Jackson was seen to still have possession
of the ball. He had made a great gain.
"Now, once more, fellows!" called Phil. "Smash the line to pieces!"
Again there came a play, this time with Holly Cross endeavoring to go
between center and guard. But, unexpectedly, he felt as if he had hit a
stone wall. Fairview had developed unusual strength. There was no gain
there. But Phil thought he knew the weakness of the opposing team, and
he decided for another try at line bucking. There would still be time
for kicking on the third down, and he wanted his team to have the ball
as long as possible early in the game.
This time he signaled for Dutch Housenlager, who was at right tackle, to
go through left tackle. The play was well executed, but Dutch was a
little slow at hitting the line, and after a slight advance he was held,
and only five yards were gained. Randall must kick, and the yells of
delight that had greeted her first advance were silenced, while the
supporters of the co-educational academy prepared to encourage their
players by vocal efforts.
Holly Cross booted the ball well up into the enemy's territory. Tom, and
Joe Jackson, the ends, were down like tigers, but they could not break
through the well-organized interference that surrounded Roger Barnes,
the Fairview full-back. On he rushed until Phil, pluckily breaking
through, tackled him fiercely.
"Now see how we can hold 'em!" called Holly Cross to his men, and they
all braced, ready for the smash they knew would come. Nor was it long
delayed. Right at the center of the line came Lem Sellig, the Fairview
left half-back. But he met Snail Looper's solid flesh, supported by
Phil and the three other backs. Yet, in spite of this, Lem managed to
advance.
"Hold! hold!" pleaded Holly, and, with gritting teeth and tense muscles,
his men did hold. But ten yards had been gained. Fairview was not as
easy as had been hoped.
Once more the line-smashing occurred, but this time not for such a gain,
and on the next try Fairview was forced to kick.
"Right down the line, now!" called Phil, and, as if the cheering
contingent understood, Bean Perkins, with his foghorn voice, started
the song: "Take it to the Goal Posts, Boys!"
It had been decided, before the game, that Randall would attempt only
straight football, at least during the first half. Coach Lighton wisely
advised against trick plays so early in the season, as there were a
number of comparatively new men on the eleven. So Phil, when his side
had the ball again, called for more line-smashing, and his men responded
nobly.
They advanced the ball to the twenty-five yard line, and, though tempted
to give the signal for a goal from the field, Phil refrained, as there
was a quartering wind blowing. He did signal for a fake kick play,
however, feeling that he was justified in it, and to his horror there
was a fumble. Fairview broke through and captured the ball.
Dejected and almost humiliated, Randall lined up to receive a smashing
attack, but instead Fairview kicked, for her captain was nervous, and
feared the holding powers of his opponent's line.
"Now we've got 'em!" yelled Phil, as Holly Cross began running back with
the pigskin. The Fairview ends were right on hand, however, and broke
through the interference, so that Holly was downed ere he had covered
ten yards. But it gave Randall the ball, and then, with a grim
determination to smash or be smashed, the lads went at the Fairview line
hammer and tongs. They rushed the ball to the ten-yard line this time,
and then came a rapid succession of sequence plays, no signals being
given. Indeed, had Phil yelled the numbers and letters through a
megaphone, they could hardly have been heard, so tumultuous was the
cheering of the Randall supporters.
Against such whirlwind playing as this the Fairview line crumpled and
went to pieces. Slam-bang at it came first Holly Cross, then Kindlings,
and then Jerry Jackson. The latter, by a great effort, managed to wiggle
along the last few inches, and placed the ball over the final white
mark.
"Touch-down!" yelled Tom Parsons, and a touch-down it was. How the
cheers broke forth then! What a riot of color from the grandstands! How
the flags, ribbons and banners waved! How the gay youths and grave men
yelled themselves hoarse! How the girls' shrill voices sounded over the
field!
The goal was missed on account of the strong wind, and once more the
play started in. There was more line-smashing and some kicking, yet the
half ended with the score five to nothing in favor of Randall.
There was much talk in the dressing-room of the Randall players during
the intermission. Some of the players pleaded for the trial of trick
plays which they had practiced, but Coach Lighton insisted on
line-smashing.
"I know it is more tiresome," he said, "but it will be better practice
for you now. You need straight football early in the season. Clinton,
how is your shoulder holding out?"
"Fine. It doesn't hurt me at all."
As only minor hurts had resulted from the play of the first half, no
change was made in the line-up. Once more, when the whistle blew, did
the whirlwind work begin. There was a noticeable difference in the style
of Fairview. They had put in some new men, and were playing a kicking
game. They were holding better in the line, too.
The result was that after several minutes of play, during which the ball
had changed hands several times, the Randall players were tiring. It was
what the wily captain of the Fairview team had counted on. Then he sent
his men smashing the line, and to the grief of Holly Cross he saw his
men being pushed back. In vain did he appeal to them--even reviled
them--for not holding their ground. But it was impossible, and,
following a sensational run around right end, Joe Jackson missing an
easy tackle of Lem Sellig, the latter player made a touch-down. This
time it was the chance for the Fairview supporters to cheer and yell,
and they did it, the singing contingent rendering with much effect: "We
Have Old Randall's Scalp Now."
The score was tied, as Fairview failed to kick goal, and at it they
went again, smash and hammer, hammer and smash. Phil called for a trick
play, and it worked well, but the gain was small, and a little later the
ball went to Fairview on a penalty. Then came the surprise of the day.
On a forward pass the pigskin was taken well toward Randall's goal line,
and after the down Ted Puder, the husky left-tackle, was shoved over for
another touch-down.
The stands fairly trembled under the cheers, yells and excited stamping
of the co-educationals. The girls sang a song of victory, and the
Randall players, with woe-begone faces, gathered behind their goal
posts. There was a futile attempt to block the kick, but the spheroid
sailed over the bar. The score was eleven to five against Randall.
CHAPTER XIV
"GIRLS ARE QUEER"
"Now, fellows, we can win, or at least tie the score yet," remarked
Captain Cross, as his players were sent back to the middle of the field
for another kick-off. "Smash through 'em! Phil, try our forward pass and
on-side kick."
"There are only five minutes more of play," said Tom, who heard that
from the timekeeper.
"Never mind, we can do it. Tie the score, anyhow!"
But it was not to be. Smash through the line though her players did, for
there seemed no stopping them, successful as the forward pass was, and
with the gain netted by an on-side kick, Randall could do no better than
to carry the ball to the Fairview ten-yard line.
There might have been a try for a field goal, but Phil decided there was
no chance for it, whereas bucking the line was almost a sure thing.
His men were doing magnificent work, for they had carried the ball
continuously from the middle of the field without loss. Two minutes more
of play would have given them a touch-down, but the fatal whistle blew,
and with a groan the Randall players knew their last hope was gone.
There came the usual cheers and college yells for the vanquished from
the victors, and the return of the compliment. Then the downcast Randall
lads filed slowly across the gridiron. They were sad at heart, and Coach
Lighton noticed it.
"Fellows, you did magnificent work!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "You
really did!"
"All except winning," said Tom gloomily.
"I think we played rotten!" burst out Phil, who seemed to take it much
to heart.
"And I let Sellig get around me, and missed tackling him," said Joe
Jackson, fairly groaning. "That cost us the game."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Captain Cross, who knew the danger of despondency.
"You did all right, Joe; and the other Jersey twin shone like a star on
a dark night. We're all right."
"Yes, except for what ails us," added Dutch Housenlager, making a
playful attempt to trip up Tom.
"Here! Quit that!" exclaimed the left-end in no gentle voice.
Coach Lighton noticed it. Tom, as well as the others, was "on edge." It
would not need much more to demoralize the team. He must stop the
growing feeling.
"Fellows," he exclaimed, "you're all right! I know what I'm talking
about. I've coached teams before, and I say that for the first game of
the season you did all that could be expected. I'm proud of you. I----"
"A thing like this happened once before," said a voice at the elbow of
the coach. "My uncle says----"
But Ford Fenton got no further, for Dutch Housenlager, putting out his
foot, neatly tripped the offending one, and the rest of his sentence was
mumbled to the grass.
"Serves him right!" exclaimed Tom, and in the laugh that followed the
nervous, disappointed feeling of the team, in a measure, passed off.
"Fairview has a good team," went on Coach Lighton. "I give them credit
for that. But we have a better one, and now that we know their style of
play and their weakness we can beat them next game. We'll have another
chance at them."
"And we'll wipe up the gridiron with 'em!" cried Holly Cross. "Forget
it, fellows! Let's sing 'Marching to the Goal Posts,'" which they did
with such a vim that the spirits of all were raised many degrees.
"Well, Phil," remarked Tom, as he was getting off his football togs, "we
were sort of up against it, eh?"
"Oh, it might have been worse. But the way the fellows rushed the
ball up the field the last five minutes was a caution. It was like a
machine."
"Yes; we ought to have done that first."
"That's right. By the way, I'm going to see my sister. Want to come
along?"
"Sure!" exclaimed Tom with such eagerness that Phil remarked dryly:
"I don't know that she'll be with Madge Tyler."
"Oh--er--that is--that's all right," said Tom hastily, and he swallowed
quickly. "I'll go along."
"All right," said Phil.
They finished dressing, and went across the field to where a crowd of
spectators was still congregated.
"Think you can find her in this bunch?" asked Tom, but he was taking no
chances, for he himself was keeping a sharp lookout for a certain fair
face.
"Oh, I guess so. If I don't spot her she'll glimpse me. Girls are great
for finding people in a crowd. Sis always seems to do it."
"Oh, Phil!" called a voice a moment later, and Ruth Clinton hurried up
to her brother, gaily waving a Fairview flag. She was followed by Madge
Tyler, who also had her college colors with her. "How's your shoulder?"
asked Ruth anxiously. "I was so nervous that I couldn't bear to look at
the plays."
"Yes, you've got a lot of ruffians on your team," retorted her brother.
"They don't know how to play like gentlemen."
"But they know how to win!" exclaimed Madge, as she greeted her chum's
brother.
"That's right," admitted Phil, making a rueful face.
"I'm sorry I had to cheer against you and Mr. Parsons to-day," went on
Madge, as she looked at Phil. "I really--well, of course I can't say I
really wanted to you to win against Fairview, but I wish the score had
been even."
"There's no satisfaction in that," retorted Tom. "We lost, and they won,
fairly and squarely."
"Oh, I'm glad you admit that," spoke Ruth with a laugh, and she waved
her flag in Tom's face. He made a grab for it, and caught the end of
the cane. For an instant he stood thus, looking into the laughing,
mischievous eyes of Ruth Clinton.
"Do you want it?" she asked daringly.
"Yes," said Tom, "even though it is the color of the enemy."
"What will you give me for it?" she asked.
"My colors," said Tom, taking a small knot of yellow and maroon from his
coat lapel. "We'll exchange until the victory goes the other way about."
"All right," she agreed laughingly. "Don't forget, now. Mr. Parsons."
"I'll not," he assured her, and he turned to see Madge regarding him
curiously. Her eyes shifted away quickly as they met his.
"Heard from dad?" asked Phil, who had been an amused witness to the
little scene.
"Yes, I have a letter with me," answered his sister. "Here it is," and
she handed it to Phil. "Mother is some better."
"That's good. Do you have to get right back to college, or have you
girls time to go down the street and have some soda?" asked Phil.
"Oh, we'll make time to go with _you_!" exclaimed Madge, and she
accented the last word. Tom looked at her keenly.
"Come on, then," invited Phil, and, as if it was the most natural thing
in the world, he swung alongside of Madge, leaving Tom to walk with
Ruth. Nor was Tom at all slow to take advantage of this arrangement,
though for a brief instant he hardly knew whether or not he ought to go
with her, considering how friendly Madge had been with him since she
gave up going with Langridge.
"How does it feel to lose?" asked Ruth, as she walked with Tom.
"Not very good," he answered, as he listened to Madge's gay laugh at
something Phil said. He was reflecting how well she got along with the
handsome quarter-back. But Tom was not unaware of the charms of the
pretty girl at his side. They talked on many subjects during the walk to
town, and Tom felt like a chap who has had offered to him the choice of
two most delightful companions, and cannot tell which one he likes best.
Ruth was certainly an attractive girl, and her jolly laugh--but just
then he heard the rippling tones of Madge's voice.
"Oh, hang it all!" he thought to himself. "What am I up against?"
They spent a jolly afternoon before it was time for Tom and Phil to
start back to Randall.
"I hope you'll come over again--soon," said Ruth to her brother as they
were about to part.
"I will, if Miss Tyler will second your invitation," replied Phil.
"Of course I will," said Madge heartily.
"Can't I come, too?" asked Tom.
"Of course," answered Ruth promptly. "I shall expect you to report to me
on the condition of my colors."
"Oh, of course," was Tom's remark. Then he waited for Madge to say
something to him, but she turned away without a word. Yet Tom could not
forget that she had added her invitation to that of Ruth in regard to
Phil.
Whereat, wondering over some matters on the way home, Tom said to his
chum:
"Girls are queer, aren't they?"
"Are you just finding that out?" asked the quarter-back.
"I guess so," was what Tom said.
CHAPTER XV
PHIL SAVES WALLOPS
They were talking the game over in their room--Phil, Sid and Tom. Sid,
from the effects of the strong liquid which Gerhart had substituted for
the liniment, still had to carry his hand in a sling, but the fingers
were slowly losing their stiffness.
"Where you fellows made a mistake," Sid was saying, as he moved about on
the creaking old sofa to get into a more comfortable position, "where
you fellows made a mistake was in not doing more kicking early in the
game."
"Oh, I suppose you could have run things better than Phil did?"
suggested Tom, not altogether pleasantly.
"Not better, but different. You should have tired them out, and then
smashed their line all to pieces."
"It wasn't altogether such easy smashing as you would suppose, sitting
and watching the game from the grandstand, was it, Tom?" came from Phil.
"Not exactly," responded the left-end, as he rubbed his shoulder, which
he had bruised making a hard tackle. "They were as tough as nails. I
suppose we did fairly well, considering everything."
"All but winning," spoke Sid drowsily. "You didn't do that, you know.
Now be fair; did you?"
"Oh, cut it out, you old would-be philosopher!" cried Phil, twisting
around in the easy chair to reach something to throw at his chum. All he
could find was a newspaper, and he doubled that up. It missed Sid, and
hitting an ink bottle on the mantle, broke the phial, the black fluid
flowing down over the wall and on the carpet.
"That's a nice thing to do!" cried Tom. "Say, what do you want to make a
rough house for? Isn't this den bad enough as it is, without you doing
that?"
"I didn't mean to," answered Phil contritely.
"Look at the rug!" went on Tom, as the ink formed a black pool. "Pretty,
isn't it?"
"We'll get the pattern changed if we keep on," murmured Sid, without
opening his eyes. "There's the liniment spot, now the ink spot, and the
grease spots left by the former occupants. Maybe we ought to get a new
rug, fellows."
"Not this term," said Tom emphatically. "I've run over my money as it
is, and I don't like to ask dad for more."
"I notice you had some to spend for flowers to-night," remarked Phil.
On the way home from the game Tom had stopped in a florist's in Fairview
and given an order, while Phil remained outside.
"You don't mean to say that Tom has been sending flowers to some girl?"
demanded Sid, sitting up.
"Well, you can draw your own conclusions," replied Phil. "He didn't
bring 'em home to decorate _our_ room, that's sure."
"Worse and some more, too," murmured Sid. "What are you coming to, Tom?"
He looked reproachfully at his chum. Then he shook his head. "This girl
business!" he spluttered. Then, as his eyes gazed about the room, he
caught sight of the little flag of Fairview colors which Ruth Clinton
had given Tom. The latter had placed it partly behind a picture of a
football game. "Where did that come from?" demanded Sid, getting up from
the couch with an effort and striding over to the offending emblem.
"It's mine!" declared Tom. "Ruth--I mean Phil's sister--gave it to me."
For an instant Sid looked at his chum. Then his gaze traveled to the
picture of the girl--the two girls--for that of Madge was beside the
likeness of Ruth--and the former first-baseman sighed.
"Well," he said, "I s'pose there's no hope for it, but I wish I'd gone
in with some fellows who weren't crazy on the girl question. First
thing I know you fellows will have this a regular boudoir; and then
where will I be? I expect any day now you'll be wanting to get rid of
this old couch and chair, and get some mission furniture, so that you
can have a five o'clock tea here, and invite some girls and chaperons."
"Suppose we do?" asked Phil, who for some reason sided with Tom.
"Well, all I've got to say is that I give up," and Sid, with a helpless
look, flung himself down on the sofa and turned his back on his chums.
"Next you know you'll be playing tennis or croquet instead of football.
You make me sick! I tell you what it is, if you put any more of those
tomfool decorations, like flags and photographs, in this room, I'm going
to quit!" and Sid spoke earnestly.
"Aw, forget it, you old misanthropic specimen of a misogynist!"
exclaimed Phil with a laugh. "You'll be there yourself some day, and
then you'll see how it is."
"Say, you talk as if you had a girl, too!" cried Sid, sitting up again
and looking fixedly at Phil.
"Maybe I have," was the noncommittal answer.
"Then you've gone back on me, too," was what Sid said, as he pretended
to go to sleep.
It was quiet in the room for a while, each lad busy with his thoughts.
Who shall say what they were? One thing is certain--that the gazes of
Tom and Phil often traveled to the wall on which were the photographs of
two girls--Madge and Ruth. Tom looked at both; but Phil--well, did you
ever know a fellow, no matter how nice a sister he had, to care to steal
surreptitious glances at her picture? Did you? Well, that's all I'm
going to say now.
The fussy little alarm clock ticked monotonously on, as if anxious to
get its work done. Still neither of the three chums spoke. Occasionally
Sid would shift his position, but he did not open his eyes. Tom
sometimes looked at the liniment stain in the carpet, and then at the
ink spot.
"It's a wonder you wouldn't get a blotter and sop up some of that
writing fluid," suggested Phil to Tom at last.
"Why don't you do it yourself?" was the retort. "You knocked it over."
"I'm too comfortable," murmured Phil from the depths of the chair.
"Humph!" grunted Tom. Then there was silence once more.
"How's your hand, Sid?" asked Tom, when the clock had ticked off what
seemed to the lads about a million strokes.
"A little better. That's the worst thing I ever had happen to me," and
Sid looked at his stiffened fingers. "I don't know what you fellows are
going to do, but I'm going to bed!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I'm
sleepy."
"Come on out and take a walk," proposed Tom to Phil. "I'm stiff and
lame. Maybe I can walk it off. Then we'll take a hot bath in the gym and
turn in."
"That sounds good," agreed Phil. "I'll go you."
They left Sid undressing and went out, it not being a proscribed hour.
After a brisk walk around the campus they started for the gymnasium. As
they neared it they heard voices coming from the direction of Biology
Hall, a small building situated to the right of their dormitory.
"Now, then, hold him, Gerhart, while I clip him two or three good ones!"
they heard some one say, and immediately after that came in pleading
tones:
"Oh, please don't hit me again, Mr. Langridge. I did the best I could
for you."
"The best, you little rat! You didn't get the stuff I sent you for!"
exclaimed Langridge angrily.
"Because they wouldn't sell me the whisky," was the answer. "Oh, Mr.
Langridge, please don't hit me!"
"It's Wallops!" exclaimed Phil. "Wallops, the little messenger. What's
that brute Langridge up to now?"
"Seems as if he sent Wallops after liquor, and he didn't get it," said
Tom. "I hear he's been up to that trick."
"The dirty cad!" whispered Phil.
A moment later there was the sound of a blow, and it was followed by a
cry of pain.
"Come on!" cried Phil to Tom, and the two strode around the corner of
the building. They saw Gerhart holding Wallops, who was a lad small for
his age, while Langridge was punching him in the face, accompanying each
blow with the remark:
"That will teach you to play the sneak trick on me. You drank that stuff
yourself!"
"Indeed I didn't!" cried the messenger. "They wouldn't let me have it.
There was a new man behind the bar."
"That's a likely story. Hold him tight, Gerhart; I'm going to paste him
another."
"You hound!" cried Phil, his voice shrill with rage, and an instant
later he had fairly leaped beside the bully. With one hand he thrust
Langridge aside, and then, with a straight left on the jaw, he sent him
to the ground with a thud.
CHAPTER XVI
PHIL IS NERVOUS
Langridge struggled to his feet, anger rendering him almost speechless.
He started toward Phil, who stood in the attitude of a trained boxer,
awaiting the attack. The light from a new moon faintly illuminated the
scene, and the figures stood out with considerable distinctness against
the background of the dark building.
Wallops, the messenger, was shrinking away, anxious to escape unobserved,
though he cast a look of gratitude at Phil. Tom was surprised at his
chum's sudden attack, but he stood ready to aid him, in case Gerhart
should make an effort to take sides. As for Phil and Langridge, they
faced each other, one eager with righteous anger to continue the
chastisement, the other mad with the lust of shame and unreasoning.
"What--what did you do that for?" asked Langridge thickly, and his hand
went to his jaw where Phil's fist had landed. His head was singing yet
from the powerful blow.
"You know why," replied Phil calmly. "Because you're a coward."
"Hold on!" cried the bully, taking a step forward. "I've stood about all
I'm going to from you."
He looked around at Gerhart. The freshman stood passive, and Langridge
showed some surprise.
"Aren't you going to stand by me?" asked the sophomore of his ally.
"Of course," muttered Gerhart, but there was no heart in his tones. He
remembered what his crony had said regarding Phil's prowess.
"Certainly," put in Tom with gentle voice. "We'll make a quartet of it,
if you like."
"What are you interfering with my affairs for?" went on Langridge,
taking no notice of Tom.
"Because it's the affair of any decent college man to interfere when he
catches a dirty coward beating a fellow smaller than he is!" and Phil
fairly bit off the words.
"Take care!" cried Langridge. "You're going too far. I'll make a class
matter of it if you call me a coward again!"
"I wish you would!" burst out Phil. "I'd like to make a charge against
you before the whole college! Beating Wallops because he's smaller than
you are!"
"That wasn't it. He didn't do as I told him, and was insolent."
"Who gave you the right to assume a mastery over him? Besides, from what
I heard, you had evidently ordered him to do something against the
rules."
"Ah! So you were sneaking around to listen, were you?" sneered
Langridge.
"You know better than that, or I'd answer you in the same way I did at
first," replied Phil. "If you send Wallops for liquor again I shall
inform Dr. Churchill."
"I always thought you were a tattling cad!" burst out Langridge. "Now I
know it!"
Hardly were the words out of his mouth ere Phil was beside him. The
quarter-back was fairly trembling, and his voice shook as he shot out
the words:
"Take that back! Take it back, I say, or--or I'll----"
He paused, emotion overcoming him, but from the manner in which he drew
back his powerful left arm Langridge stepped aside apprehensively.
"Well, you haven't any right to interfere in my affairs," he whined.
"Do you take back what you said?" demanded Phil fiercely, and he laid a
trembling hand on the shoulder of the bully.
"Take your hand from me!" exclaimed Langridge. "Yes--I suppose I've got
to--I can't fight a professional pugilist," he added with an uneasy
laugh.
"Thanks for the compliment," spoke Phil grimly. "I guess this can end
where it is. As for you, Gerhart, if I thought you had any other part
in this than being a tool of this coward, I'd give you the soundest
thrashing you ever had."
The freshman did not answer, and when Langridge turned aside Gerhart
followed him into the shadows. Poor Wallops waited until they were out
of sight, then the messenger trailed after Phil and Tom. On the way he
haltingly told the chums that Langridge had been in the habit of sending
him to town to purchase stimulants for him. It had come to the point
where that night where the bartender had refused to sell any more
liquor, warning having been given that sales to minors were becoming too
frequent. It was the failure of Wallops to return with the whisky that
angered Langridge.
"Don't say anything about this, Wallops," advised Phil. "Langridge won't
bother you again. If he does, let me know."
"Yes, sir, and thank you, Mr. Clinton. I'll not tell."
"I guess Langridge and Gerhart won't, either," commented Tom. "They'll
be glad to let it drop."
"What cads those fellows are," remarked Phil a little later, when he
and Tom, having had a refreshing shower bath, were preparing for bed in
their room.
"Well, you took some of it out of Langridge, at all events," said the
pitcher.
"Maybe, but it will come back. I suppose I'll have to be on the lookout
now, or he may do me a dirty turn."
"Shouldn't wonder. I had my troubles with him last term. But I thought
he was going to do better this season."
"He can't seem to, evidently."
"Say," exclaimed Sid, poking his head from beneath the sheet, "I wish
you fellows would let a chap sleep. What are you chinning about?"
They told him, and, wide awake, he sat up and listened to the whole
story.
"I wish I'd seen it," he said. "It would have been as good as a football
game. By the way, who does the team play this week, Phil?"
"Oh, we've got a little game with the Haddonfield Prep. School. Doesn't
amount to much. Some of the subs will play, I fancy."
"I hope Holly doesn't make the mistake of despising an enemy," went on
Sid. "Do you know, Phil, it seems to me that our fellows haven't struck
their gait yet."
"Well, it's early in the season," said Tom.
"I know that," went on Sid, "but they ought to have more vim. There's a
curious lack of ginger noticed. _You_ didn't play with your usual snap,
Phil."
"I know it," was the almost unexpected answer from the quarter-back. "I
wondered if any one noticed it."
"I did," added Tom, "but I wasn't going to say anything. I thought it
was because it was the first game."
"No," said Phil slowly, "it wasn't that. I'm all
unstrung--nervous--that's what's the matter."
"You nervous!" exclaimed Sid. "I wouldn't have believed that. What's the
matter?"
"It's my mother," said Phil quietly, and there was a strange tone in his
voice.
"She--she's not worse--is she?" asked Tom, and the room became curiously
quiet.
"No," answered Phil; "but I can't tell what moment she may be. Fellows,
I'm living in constant fear of receiving a message that--that she--that
she's dead!"
CHAPTER XVII
THE SOPHOMORES LOSE
There are several occasions when a young man can find no words in which
to express himself. One is when he meets a pretty girl for the first
time, and another is when his best chum has a great sorrow. There are
other occasions, but these are the chief ones. Thus it was with Tom and
Sid. For a few seconds after Phil's announcement they sat staring at the
floor. Their eyes took in the pattern of the faded rug, though little of
the original figure was to be seen because of the many spots. Then Tom
looked about the apartment, viewing the photographs of the two pretty
girls, the sporting implements massed in a corner, the table, with its
artistic confusion of books and papers. From these his gaze traveled
back to Phil.
As for Sid, he breathed heavily. If he had been a girl I would have said
that he sighed. Then, being a youth who did not shirk any duty, no
matter how hard, Sid asked:
"Is--is she any worse, Phil? Have you had bad news? Can't we--can't you
go down where she is?"
Phil shook his head.
"There's no specially bad news," he said, "but it's this way: She has a
malady which, sooner or later, unless it is conquered, will--will take
her away from me--and sis. Dad thinks an operation is the only hope, but
they keep putting it off from time to time, on a slim chance that she
may recover without it. For the operation is a desperate expedient at
best. And that's why I'm not myself. That's why I can't go into the
games with all my might. I expect any moment to be summoned to the
sidelines to get a telegram saying--saying----"
He choked up, and could not finish.
"Is it--is it as bad as that?" asked Tom huskily, and he put his arm
over Phil's shoulder, as his chum sat in the old easy chair.
"It's pretty bad," said Phil softly. Then, with a sudden change of
manner, he exclaimed: "But say, I didn't mean to tell you fellows that.
I don't believe in relating my troubles to every one," and he smiled,
though it was not like his usual cheery face that looked at his two
chums.
"Oh, come now!" cried Sid. "As if we didn't want to hear! And as if you
shouldn't tell us your troubles! Why, I expect to tell you fellows mine,
and I want to hear yours in return, eh, Tom."
"Of course," said the pitcher heartily.
"Well, that's mighty white of you chaps," went on Phil, swallowing a
lump in his throat. "But I'm not going to bother you any more, just now.
Only that's the reason I'm--well, that I can't play as I want to play.
But I'm going to try to forget it. I'm going into the next game, and
help rip their line to pieces. I'm going to pilot our fellows to a big
score or dislocate my other shoulder."
"Good!" cried Sid. "Now let's get to bed. It's almost morning."
The little talk among the three chums was productive of good. There was
a closer bond of union among them than there had ever been before. They
felt more like brothers, and Tom and Sid watched Phil for the next few
days as if he was a little chap, over whom they had been given charge.
"Oh, say!" the quarter-back exclaimed at length one afternoon, when they
had followed him to football practice, and walked home with him. "I'm
not so bad as all that, you know."
"Did you hear any news to-day?" asked Tom, ignoring the mild rebuke.
"Yes. Got a telegram from dad. Things look a little brighter, and
yet----" He paused. "Well," he continued, "I don't want to think too
much about it. We play Haddonfield to-morrow. I want to wipe up the
gridiron with them."
Which Phil and his chums pretty nearly did. Haddonfield Preparatory
School had the best eleven in years, but, even with a number of scrub
players on Randall, the score was forty-six to nothing. There was a
different air about the college team as the lads went singing from the
field that afternoon. There was confidence in their eyes.
It was a beautiful afternoon in October. Lectures were over and a throng
of students had strolled over the campus and down to the banks of Sunny
River. The stream flowed lazily along toward Lake Tonoka, winding in
and out, as though it had all the time it desired in which to make the
journey, and meant to take the full allowance. There was nothing rapid
or fussy about Sunny River. It was not one of those hurrying, bubbling,
frothy streams that make a great ado about going somewhere, and never
arrive. There was something soothing in walking along the banks that
bracing, fall day. There was just enough snap in the air to prevent one
from feeling enervated, yet there was hardly a hint of winter.
"Doesn't it make you feel as if you could stretch out on your back and
look up into the sky?" asked Phil of Tom as the three chums walked
along. Tom and the quarter-back had been to football practice, and still
had their togs on.
"Now hold on!" exclaimed Sid, before Tom could answer. "Is this going to
lead anywhere?"
"What do you mean?" asked Phil.
"I mean that poetical start on a talk-fest. Are you going to ring in
beautiful scenery, calm, peaceful atmosphere, a sense of loneliness, and
then switch off on to girls? Is that what you're driving at? Because if
it is I want to know, and I'm going back and read some psychology."
"You're up the wrong tree," declared Tom. "I don't know what Phil means,
but my answer to his question would be that to stretch out on the ground
for any length of time at this season would mean stiff muscles, not to
mention rheumatism."
"You fellows have no poetry in your nature," complained Phil. "Just look
there, where the river curves, how the trees lean over to be kissed by
the limpid water. Can't you fancy some one floating, floating down it in
a boat, with heart attuned----"
"It's too late for boating!" exclaimed a voice behind the trio. "My
uncle says----"
Phil turned quickly and tried to grab Ford Fenton. The youth with the
uncle jumped back.
"Why--what--what's the matter?" stammered Fenton.
"Matter!" cried Phil. "Why, you little shrimp, I've a good notion to
chuck you into the river!"
"Yes, the river--the beautiful, meandering, poetical river," added
Tom. "Quit it, Phil; you're getting on my nerves. I'm glad Fenton
interrupted you with a recollection of his uncle. What were you going
to say about your respected relative?" he asked.
But Fenton was going to take no chances with Phil, and, turning about,
he retraced his steps.
"What were you saying, Phil?" inquired Sid politely, if sarcastically.
"None of your business," replied the quarter-back a little stiffly. "I'm
going to write a poem about it," he added more genially.
"And send it to some girl, I suppose," went on Sid. "Oh, you make me
sick!"
What further ramification the conversation might have taken is
problematical, but it was interrupted just then by the arrival of Ed
Kerr, who seemed in much of a hurry.
"I've been looking all over for you fellows," he panted.
"Why hastenest thou thus so hastily?" asked Tom. "Is the college on
fire? Has Pitchfork been taken with a fit, or has Moses sent to say we
need study no more?"
"Quit your gassin'!" ordered Ed. "Say, we're going to have the walk rush
to-night. The freshies have just had a meeting and decided on it. Tried
to pull it off quietly, but Snail Looper heard, and kindly tipped us
off. Dutch Housenlager is getting the soph crowd together. You fellows
want to be in it, don't you?"
"Of course," answered Tom. "We have not forgotten that we were once
freshmen, and that we had many clashes with the second-years. Now we
will play the latter rôle. Lead on, Macduff, and he be hanged who first
cries: 'Hold! Enough!' We'll make the freshies wish they had never seen
Randall College."
"Maybe--maybe not," spoke Phil. "They're a husky lot--the first-year
lads. But we can never let them have the privilege of the walk without a
fight."
The "walk rush," as it was termed, was one of those matters about which
college tradition had centered. It was a contest between the freshman
and sophomore classes, that took place every fall, usually early in
October. It got its name from the walk which circled Booker Memorial
Chapel. This chapel was the gift of a mother whose son had died while
attending Randall, and the beautiful stained glass windows in it were
well worth looking at--in fact, many an artist came to Randall expressly
for that purpose.
Around the chapel was a broad walk, shaded with stately oaks, and the
path was the frequenting place of the college lads. From time immemorial
the walk had been barred to freshmen unless, in the annual rush, they
succeeded in defeating the sophomores, and, as this seldom occurred, few
freshmen used the walk, save on Sundays, when all hostilities were
suspended, in honor of the day. The rush always took place on a small
knoll, or hill, back of the gymnasium, and it was the object of the
freshmen to take possession of this point of vantage, and maintain it
for half an hour against the rush of the sophomores. If they succeeded
they were entitled to use the chapel walk. If they did not, they were
reviled, and any freshman caught on the forbidden ground was liable to
summary punishment.
Dark figures stole silently here and there. Commands and instructions
were whispered hoarsely. There was an air of mystery about, for it was
the night of the walk rush, and freshmen and sophomores were each
determined to win.
Garvey Gerhart, by virtue of the "boosting" which Langridge had given
him, had secured command of the first-year forces. As soon as it was
dark he had assembled them on "gym hill," as the knoll was called. There
was a large crowd of freshmen, almost too large, it seemed, for the
sophomores were outnumbered two to one. But Tom, Sid, Phil, Dutch
Housenlager, Ed Kerr and others of the second-year class were strong in
the belief of their power to oust their rivals from the hilltop. They
had a moral force back of them--the conscious superiority of being
"veterans," which counted for much.
"We're going to have our work cut out for us," commented Tom, as, with
his chums advancing slowly to the fray, he surveyed the throng of
freshmen. "My, but there's a bunch of 'em! And we've got to clean every
mother's son of them off the hill."
"We'll do it!" cried Phil gaily. "It will be good training for us."
"Of course!" exclaimed Dutch, as he put out his foot slyly to trip Sid.
Tom saw the act, he executed a quick movement that sent Housenlager
sprawling on the ground.
"That's the time you got some of your own medicine!" exclaimed Phil with
a laugh, as Dutch, muttering dire vengeance, picked himself up.
The preliminaries for the rush were soon arranged, timekeepers and
umpires selected, and, with the bright moon shining down on the scene,
the battle began. It was wild, rough and seemingly without order, yet
there was a plan about it. The freshmen were massed together on top, and
about the center bunch were circles of their fellows who were to thrust
back the rushing sophomores. Not until the last freshman had been swept
from the hill could the second-year youths claim victory.
"All ready!" yelled Ed Kerr, and at the freshmen went their rivals.
There was the thud of body striking body. Breaths came quick and fast.
There were smothered exclamations, the sound of blows good-naturedly
taken and given. There were cries, shouts, commands, entreaties. There
was a swaying of the mass, this way and that. A knot of lads would go
down, with a struggling pile on top of them, and the conglomeration
would writhe about until it disentangled.
Tom, Phil and Sid (whose hand was now almost entirely better) tore their
way toward the center. Time and again they were hurled back, only to
renew the rush.
"Clean 'em off!" was the rallying cry of the sophomores.
"Fight 'em back!" was the retort of the freshmen.
At it they went, fiercely and earnestly. The entire mass appeared to be
revolving about the hill now, with the little group of freshmen on the
top as a pivot.
Gradually Tom, Phil and their particular chums worked their way up
to the crest. Then they found that the freshmen had adopted strange
tactics. Under the advice of Gerhart they stretched out prone, and, with
arms and legs twined together, made a regular layer of bodies, covering
the summit. It was almost impossible to separate the lads one from the
other, in order to hurl them out of the way. They were literally
"sticking together."
"Tear 'em apart!" pleaded Tom.
"Rip 'em up!" shouted Phil.
"Hold tight!" sung out Gerhart.
And hang tightly they did. Tom succeeded in breaking the hold of one
lad, and Phil that of another. But, in turn, the two big sophomores were
borne down and overwhelmed by the weight of freshmen on their backs.
The referee blew a warning whistle. But two minutes of time were left.
The sophomores redoubled their efforts, but the ruse of the freshmen was
a good one. It was like trying to tear apart a living doormat.
The sophomores could not do it. Though they labored like Trojans, it was
not to be. Once more the whistle blew, indicating that the rush was
ended.
The sophomores had lost, and for the remainder of the term the freshmen
could strut proudly about the walk of Booker Memorial Chapel.
CHAPTER XVIII
A FIRE ALARM
"Well," remarked Phil ruefully, as he and Tom, rather sore and bruised,
went to their room. There was an air of quietness about the sophomores.
They did not cheer and sing, but back on the knoll the victorious
freshmen made the night hideous with their college cries.
"Is that all?" inquired Tom, for Phil had uttered only the one word.
"That's all, son, as Bricktop Molloy would say. 'Sufficient unto the day
is the evil thereof.' We were dumped good and proper."
"With plenty of gravy on the side," added Sid.
"I was afraid of it," spoke Tom solemnly. "I said they were too many for
us."
"Listen to old 'I told you so,'" mocked Phil. "Next he'll be telling us
that he predicted we'd lose the football championship. You make me
tired!"
"I'm tired already," retorted Tom good naturedly. "Some one gave me an
extra good poke in the ribs the last minute."
"It was Gerhart," declared Sid. "I saw him. I had a good notion to punch
him for you."
"I'd just as well you didn't," went on Tom. "There's no love lost
between us and his crony, Langridge, now. No use making matters worse.
But he certainly managed the freshies well. That was a good trick, lying
down and making a mat of themselves."
"Yes; hereafter I suppose it will be the regular practice for future
classes," said Phil. "We'll have to think up a new plan to break up that
kind of interference. My, but I'm lame!"
"Better not let Lighton hear you say that."
"Why?"
"He'd lay you off from football. There are three candidates for every
position on the 'varsity this term, and we fellows who have made the
eleven will have to take care of ourselves."
"That's so," admitted Tom. "Well, a hot bath will fix me up, and then
for some good sleep."
"I wish I could snooze," spoke Phil.
"Why can't you?" asked Sid.
"I've got to bone away on Greek. Got turned back in class to-day, and
Pitchfork, who's a regular fiend at it, as well at Latin, warned me that
I'd be conditioned if I didn't look out."
"You want to be careful, son," cautioned Sid. "Remember how I nearly
slumped in Latin before the big ball game last year, and only just got
through by the skin of my teeth in time to play? Don't let that happen
to you. It isn't good for the constitution; not a little bit."
The three chums went to the gymnasium and had a warm shower, followed by
a brisk rub-down, after which they all felt better. Then, in their room,
they talked the walk rush all over again, until Phil threw books at Sid
and Tom to make them keep quiet so that he might study.
The week that followed was marked by some hard practice on the gridiron,
for there was in prospect a game with the Orswell Military Academy, the
eleven of which was seldom defeated. Therefore, Coach Lighton and
Captain Cross worked their men well.
Phil, in particular, received some very special instructions about
running the team. Some new plays were practiced, and a different
sequence was planned.
"I want three corking good plays to be worked in sequence when we get to
within reaching distance of the twenty-five-yard line," said the coach.
"Maybe we can try for a field goal, but the chances are against it if
the wind blows. A good sequence will do wonders."
Then the coach explained the sequence plays. They were to be three,
in which the right-half, the full-back and the left-tackle would
successively take the ball, without a word being spoken after the first
signal for the play had been given. The plays were to be executed in
quick succession, and the coach depended on that to demoralize the cadet
eleven.
"There'll probably be such cheering when we get to within twenty-five
yards of their goal that it will be hard to hear signals, anyhow," Mr.
Lighton went on. "So memorize these plays carefully, and we'll try to
work them. When Clinton remarks: 'We have twenty-five yards to go,
fellows; walk up together, now,' that will be the signal for the
sequence plays."
They tried them against the scrub, and did remarkably well. Then came a
day of hard work, followed by some light practice, and a rest on the
afternoon preceding the game with the cadets.
There was a big attendance at the grounds, which adjoined the military
academy, about twenty miles from Randall College. In their first half
the home eleven, by dint of trick plays and much kicking, so wore out
the Randallites that they could not score, while Orswell made two
touch-downs. But it was different in the second half, and after a
touch-down gained by a brilliant run on Tom's part, there came a second
one, which resulted from the sequence plays. Right through the line in
turn went Kindlings Woodhouse, Holly Cross and Ed Kerr. The twenty-five
yards were made in three minutes of play, and the score tied. Then, by
a skilful forward pass and some line bucking, another touch-down was
made, and then, as if to cap the climax, Holly Cross kicked a beautiful
field goal.
"Wow! Hold me from flying!" cried Phil, as he tried to hug the entire
team after the referee's whistle blew. His fellows had responded nobly
to the calls he made on them, and he had run the team with a level head.
"Boys, I'm proud of you," said the coach. "It's the biggest score
against the Orswell cadets in many a year."
And there was much rejoicing in Randall College that night, so that
Professor Tines felt called upon to remonstrate to Dr. Churchill about
the noise the lads were making.
"Why, I'm not aware of any unusual noise; not from here," spoke the
venerable president, in his comfortable study, with a book of Sanskrit
on his knee.
"You could hear it if you went outside," said the Latin teacher.
"Ah, yes, doubtless; but, you see, my dear professor, I'm not going
outside," and Dr. Churchill smiled benevolently.
"Humph!" exclaimed Mr. Tines, as he went back to his apartments. "If I
had my way, football and all sports would be abolished. They are a
relic of barbarism!"
It was late when Phil and Tom got to their room that night. They
narrowly escaped being caught by Mr. Snell, one of the proctor's scouts,
and dashed into their "den" at full speed.
"Can't you make less row?" demanded Sid, who was studying. "You've put
all the thoughts I had on my essay out of my head."
"Serves you right for being a greasy dig!" exclaimed Tom. "Why don't you
be a sport? You're getting to be a regular hermit."
"I want my degree," explained Sid, who was studying as he had not
thought of doing his first term.
It was after midnight when Tom, who did not sleep well on account of the
excitement following the football game, awoke with a start. Through the
glass transom over the door of the room he saw a red glare.
"Fire!" he exclaimed, as he jumped out of bed and landed heavily in the
middle of the apartment.
"What's that?" cried Phil, sitting up. "Is there a telegram for me? Is
there--is there----"
He was at Tom's side, hardly awake.
"It's no telegram," answered Tom quickly "Looks like a fire."
He threw open the door. The corridor was filled with clouds of lurid
smoke which rolled in great masses here and there.
"The whole place is ablaze!" cried Tom. "Get up, Sid!" and he pulled the
bedclothes from his still sleeping chum.
CHAPTER XIX
THE FRESHMEN DANCE
"Here, quit!" cried Sid, making an effort to pull back the coverings on
which Tom was yanking. "Let a fellow alone, can't you? Quit fooling!
This is no freshman's room!"
"Get out, you old duffer!" yelled Phil. "The place is on fire!"
"Who's on the wire?" asked Sid, thinking some one had called him on the
telephone. "I don't care who it is. I'm not going to answer this time of
night. I want to sleep. Tell 'em to call up again."
"Fire! Fire! Not wire!" shouted Tom in his ear, and this time Sid heard
and was fully awake. He caught a glimpse of the clouds of lurid smoke
pouring in from the corridor.
"Jumping Johnnie cake! I should say it was a fire!" he cried. "Come on,
fellows, let's get some of our stuff out! I want my football pictures,"
and with that Sid rushed to the wall and yanked down the only bit of
ornamentation he cared for--a lithograph of a Rugby scrimmage. "Come
on!" he yelled, grabbing up a pile of his clothes from a chair. "This
is all I want. Let the books and other stuff go!"
"But the sofa! The chair!" cried Tom, who had peered out into the hall,
only to jump back again, gasping and choking. "We can chuck them out of
the window."
"That's right. Can't hurt 'em much," added Phil, who was getting into
his trousers.
"Grab hold, then. But wait until I button my vest," ordered Tom, who
was fumbling with the garment, the only one he had grabbed up. He had
switched on the electric light, and the gleam shone through a cloud of
the reddish smoke. "What's the matter with this blamed thing, anyhow?"
he cried, as he fumbled in vain for the buttons.
"You've got it on backwards!" cried Sid, who had tossed his clothes out
of the window, following them with the picture, and was now ready to
help his chums.
"Great Jehosophat!" cried Tom. "So I have!"
He yanked off the garment and tossed it into a corner. Then, clad only
in his pajamas, he started to carry the old armchair to the window. It
was almost too much for him, and Sid came to his aid.
"Let that go, and get the sofa out first!" cried Phil. "The chair can
fall on that. Say, listen to the row!"
Out in the corridor could be heard confused shouts, and the sound of
students running to and fro. Every now and then some one would cry
"Fire!" and the rush would be renewed.
"The whole place must be going!" cried Sid. "Hurry up, Tom, shove it
out! Maybe we can save some other things."
"Better save ourselves first!" exclaimed Phil. "The stairs and halls are
all ablaze!" He came back from a look into the corridor choking and
gasping. "We've got to jump for it! Shove that chair out, then the sofa,
and pile the bedding on top. That will make a place to land on."
"Here she goes!" shouted Tom, and he and Sid shoved their precious old
chair from the window. It fell with a great crash to the ground, two
stories below.
"Broken to bits!" said Tom with a groan. "Now for the sofa. There'll be
nothing left of it."
They had raised it to the window sill, after much effort, and were
balancing it there while recovering their breaths. Their room was
filled with the heavy fumes of smoke, and the noise in the corridor
was increasing.
"Let her go!" cried Phil. "Lively, now, if we want to get out alive!"
But just as the three chums were about to release their hold on the
sofa, Mr. Snell, one of the under-janitors of the college, and a sort of
scout or spy of the proctor's, ran into the room.
"There's no fire! There's no danger!" he called. "Don't throw anything
out."
"No fire?" questioned Tom.
"No. Some of the students burned red fire in the halls, that's all,"
went on Mr. Snell. "There's no danger. The proctor sent me around to
explain. It's only some illuminating red fire."
Tom, Sid and Phil looked at each other, as they stood at the window,
holding their precious sofa. The clouds of smoke were rolling away, and
the noise was lessening. Tom looked out of the casement, and, in the
semi-darkness below, saw the chair they had thrown out. Just then, from
below, a crowd of freshmen, who had perpetrated the trick, began singing
"Scotland's Burning."
Tom glanced at his chums. Then he uttered one word:
"Stung!"
"Good and proper!" added Phil.
"By a nest of fresh hornets!" commented Sid wrathfully.
The scout withdrew. Phil looked at his trousers, and then he began
slowly to take them off. Tom took one more look out of the window.
"They're jumping all over our chair," he said.
"They are? The young imps!" cried Sid. "Come on to the rescue! Get into
some togs and capture a few freshmen." Then, as he realized that he had
tossed his clothes out of the window, he groaned. "You fellows will have
to go," he said. "I haven't any duds."
"They're parading around with your best go-to-meeting suit," observed
Phil. Sid groaned again.
"Hurry, fellows, if you love me," he said.
"There's a crowd of sophs after 'em now," added Tom, and so it proved.
The freshmen beat a retreat, and some of our friends' classmates formed
a guard around the things on the ground.
The three chums were not the only ones who had tossed articles out of
their windows in the moments of excitement. Many possessions of the
sophomores were on the ground below, and, now that the scare was over,
they began collecting them. Tom and Phil managed, with the help of some
of their classmates, to get Sid's garments and the chair back to their
room. The chair was in sad shape, though, and Sid groaned in anguish as
he viewed it.
"Oh, quit!" begged Phil, as he tossed Sid's clothes on the bed. "We can
fix it up again."
"It'll never be the same," wailed Sid as he tried it. "There was a place
that just fit my back, and now----"
He leaped up with a howl, and held his hand to the fleshy part of his
leg.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom.
"A broken spring stuck me," explained Sid, who was too lightly clad to
indulge in indiscriminate sitting about. "Oh, those freshies! What can
we do to get square with them?"
"That's more like it," said Tom. "We've got to pay them back in some
way, and the sooner the better."
It was an hour or more before matters had quieted down in the west
dormitory. From various sophomores who came into their room to exchange
notes, Tom, Phil and Sid learned that the freshmen had executed a
well-organized fire scare by the simple process of burning in each
corridor some of the powder extensively used on Fourth of July, or in
political parades.
"Well, there's no use talking about what they did to us," said Ed Kerr.
"The question is, what can we do to them? They certainly put it all over
us."
"Dutch, you ought to be able to suggest something," said Tom. "You're
always up to some trick. Give us one to play on the freshies."
"Sure," agreed Dutch. "Let me think."
Sid arose and turned out the light.
"What's that for?" asked Dutch.
"So you can think better. I can, in the dark. Go ahead, now. Let's have
something good."
Dutch was silent for a few minutes, and then he proposed a plan which
was received with exclamations of delight.
"The very thing!" cried Tom. "I wonder we didn't think of it before.
We'll be just in time. Now, maybe we can make them laugh on the other
side of their heads."
The next morning there were triumphant looks on the faces of the
freshmen. They had played a good joke on their traditional enemies, the
sophomores, and felt elated over it. But, in accordance with a plan they
had adopted the night after Dutch revealed his plan, the sophomores made
no retort to the taunts of their enemies. And there was no lack of
railery. Gathered on the walk about Booker Memorial Chapel, whence for
many terms freshmen had, by traditional college custom, been barred, the
first-year lads made all sorts of jokes concerning the scrabble that had
ensued among the sophomores when the cry of fire was raised.
"And we have to stand it!" exclaimed Tom, gritting his teeth.
"For a couple of days," added Sid. "But it strikes me, old chap, that
last term you played the rôle of the aforesaid freshies to perfection."
"Oh, that was different. But let them wait. We'll put the kibosh on
their fun in a few days. Has Dutch got the stuff?"
"Hush!" exclaimed Phil. "The least hint will spoil the scheme of
revenge! Revenge! Revenge!" he hissed, after the manner of a stage
villain. "We will have our re-venge-e-e-e-e!"
It was the night of the freshman dance, an annual affair that loomed
large in the annals of the first-year students and their girl friends. It
was to be held in a hall in Haddonfield, and many were the precautions
taken by the committee to prevent any of the hated sophomores from
attending, or getting to the place beforehand, lest they might, by some
untoward act, "put it on the blink," as Holly Cross used to say.
The hall was tastefully arranged with flowers and a bank of palms,
behind which the orchestra was to be hidden. About the balcony were
draped the college colors, with the class hues of the freshmen
intermingled.
Early on the evening of the dance, Garvey Gerhart, who was chairman of
the committee on arrangements, left the college on his way to town to
see that all was in readiness.
"Doesn't he look pretty!" exclaimed Phil, who, with a group of
sophomores, stood near Booker Chapel.
"I wonder if he has his dress suit on?" asked Tom.
"We ought to see if his hair is parted," put in Sid. "Freshmen don't
know how to look after themselves. Have you a clean pocket handkerchief,
Algernon?" and he spoke the last in a mocking tone.
"Look out; there may be another fire," retorted Gerhart with a grin, and
the sophomores could only grit their teeth. They knew the freshmen still
had the laugh on them.
"But not for long?" muttered Phil. "Is Dutch all ready?"
"All ready," answered that worthy for himself. "We'll slip off to town
as soon as it's dusk."
"Think you'll have any trouble in getting in?" asked Ed Kerr.
"Not a bit. I bribed one of the doorkeepers. Be on hand outside to
listen to the fun."
A little before the first arrivals at the freshman dance had reached the
hall, a figure might have been seen moving quickly about the ballroom in
the dim illumination from the half-turned-down lights. The figure went
about in circles, with curious motions of the hands, and then, after a
survey of the place and a silent laugh, withdrew.
The music began a dreamy waltz, following the opening march. Freshmen
led their fair partners out on the floor, and began whirling them about.
The lights twinkled, there was the sweet smell of flowers, fair faces
of the girls looked up into the proud, flushed ones of the youths.
Chaperons looked on approvingly. The music became a trifle faster. The
dance was in full swing.
Suddenly a girl gave a frightened little cry.
"What's the matter?" asked her partner.
"My shoes! They--they seem to be sticking to the floor. I--I can't
dance!"
From all over the room arose similar cries of dismay from the girls and
exclamations of disgust from the boys. The dancers went slower and
slower. It was an effort to glide about, and some could scarcely lift
their feet. The floor seemed to hold them as a magnet does a bit of
iron. Garvey Gerhart, releasing his pretty partner, leaned over and
touched the floor.
"It's as sticky as molasses!" he cried in dismay.
CHAPTER XX
PHIL GETS A TELEGRAM
The music stopped with a discord. A strange spell seemed thrown over the
dancers. Some, who had come to a stop, now tried to move, and found that
their feet were fast to the floor. It was an effort to lift them. The
surface that had seemed well waxed was now as sticky as if glue had been
poured over it. To walk was almost impossible; to dance, out of the
question.
"Maybe it's only in a few places, and we can scrape it off," suggested
Will Foster, a chum of Gerhart. "Let's try."
He endeavored, with his knife, to remove some of the sticky stuff, but
he might as well have tried to dig up a board in the floor.
"What is it?" asked Gerhart's partner.
"I don't know," he answered ruefully. "Something very sticky has gotten
on the floor."
"Maybe some of the waiters spilled ice cream or coffee, or some candy
got there," she suggested.
"This is stickier than any of those things," spoke Gerhart. "I--I
guess some one has played a trick on us."
"A trick?"
"Yes; the sophomores. I should have been more on the lookout, but I
didn't think they could get in. I told the men at the door not to let
any one in who didn't have a freshman pin. But--well, we'll wait a bit
and see if it dries up," he concluded.
But the stuff on the floor didn't dry up. Instead, it became more
sticky. The ballroom was like one big sheet of adhesive flypaper, and
the dancers, walking about, felt their shoes pull up with queer little
noises every time they took a step. They tried to dance once more, but
it was a miserable failure. One might as well have tried to waltz or
two-step on the sands of the seashore.
Then from a window there sounded the old song: "Clarence McFadden, He
Wanted to Waltz." The chagrined dancers turned to the casement, to
behold a circle of mocking faces. Gerhart looked, too.
[Illustration: "Clarence McFadden, He Wanted to Waltz"]
"The sophs!" he cried, as he caught sight of Tom, Phil, Sid, Dutch
Housenlager and several others.
"At your service!" cried Phil. "Guess you'll have to dance to slow music
to-night!" And then, to show that it was in revenge for the fire scare,
the sophomores sang: "Scotland's Burning."
"It worked to perfection, Dutch. However did you manage it?" asked Tom,
as the sophomores, having satisfied themselves that the freshman dance
had been spoiled, walked back to college.
"Easy," answered the fun-loving student. "I mixed up a sticky preparation
of glue, varnish, gum and so on, made it into a powder, and put it
in alcohol. Then I sneaked in past the doorkeeper I had bribed, and
sprinkled the stuff all over the floor. There was no color to it, and
they didn't notice it. The alcohol kept it from sticking until after the
march, and then, when the alcohol evaporated, it left the gum ready to do
its work."
"And it did it," commented Sid.
It certainly did, for the disconcerted freshman and the pretty girls
soon left the hall. It was impossible to dance on the floor until the
sticky stuff had been scraped off.
"It was rather a brutal trick, after all," said Tom to Phil a little
later, when the three were in their room. "It would have been all right
on the freshies alone, but the girls--they had to suffer, too."
"Of course," said Sid. "Why not? _Secundum naturam_, you know, according
to the course of nature it had to be. The good with the bad. The
freshies brought it on themselves, eh, Phil?"
"Oh, I suppose so," replied the quarter-back, who was busy with paper
and pencil. "Still, it was a bit rough on the lassies. There were some
pretty ones----"
"Oh, you fellows and the girls!" exclaimed Sid in disgust. "You make me
sick!"
"That's all right," went on Tom easily. "You'll get yours some day, and
then we'll see----"
"Hello, where'd that picture come from?" asked Sid, pointing to another
photograph on the wall beside those of Ruth and Madge. Tom blushed a
bit, and did not answer. Phil looked up and exclaimed:
"Why, it's another picture of my sister! She must have had some new ones
taken. Where did it come from?"
"She gave it to me," explained Tom, and his shoelace seemed suddenly to
have come unfastened, so it was necessary to stoop over to tie it.
"Hum!" murmured Phil, with a queer look at his chum's red face. "She
didn't say anything to me about it. But if you're going to add to our
collection, Tom, I guess it's up to me to get another one, too."
"Whose will you get now?" asked Sid. "Haven't you got enough girls'
faces stuck up around here? Do you want another?"
"Not another," spoke Phil slowly, "but another of the same one. Miss
Tyler promised me one of her new photographs."
"She did?" cried Tom, and he turned quickly.
"Yes; have you any objections?" and Phil gazed straight at Tom.
"No--oh, no. Of course not," he added hastily, "only I didn't know----
What are you doing?" he asked rather suddenly, changing the subject, as
he saw Phil's paper and pencil.
"I'm working on a new football play," replied Phil, and he, too, seemed
glad that the subject was changed.
"That's more like it," commented Sid. "Now you're talking sense. Let's
hear it."
"It's this way," explained Phil, as he showed his chums what he had
drawn. "It's a fake tackle run, and a pass to the right half-back.
Nothing particularly new about it, as it's often used, but my plan is
to work it immediately after we run off a play of left-tackle through
right-tackle and right-end. After that play has been pulled off, it
will look as if we were trying to repeat it, and we'll catch the other
fellows off their guard. In this play, the left-tackle, after the
signal, turns back and takes the ball from me. He passes the ball to the
right-half, who turns to the left for a run around our left-end. Our
full-back charges on the opposing left-tackle, crossing in front of our
right-half to better conceal the ball. The left half-back helps the
left-tackle to make his quick turn, and then blocks off the opposing
right-end, while I help make interference for the right-half, who's got
the ball."
"That sounds good," commented Tom. "Go over it again."
Which Phil did, and his two chums both declared it ought to work well.
They tried it in practice against the scrub next day, after Coach
Lighton and Captain Holly Cross had given their approval to it. The play
operated like a charm, and was good for a touch-down. It completely
fooled the second eleven.
"It remains to be seen whether it will do the same thing against another
team," said the coach. "But we'll try it Saturday against the Dodville
Prep School. Now, boys, line up, and we'll run through it again? Also
the forward pass and the on-side kick."
The players were in the midst of a scrimmage, and Joe Jackson had just
made a fine run, when Wallops was seen coming across the gridiron. The
messenger had an envelope in his hand, and at the sight of him Phil
Clinton turned pale.
"Get back, Wallops!" cried the coach. "You're in the way."
"I have a telegram for Mr. Clinton," said the messenger.
"Oh, all right. Come on."
Phil's hand were trembling so he could hardly open the message. He
read it at a glance. Tom went close to him, and put his hand on his
shoulder.
"Is it--is it----" he began.
"Dad says to hold myself in readiness to come at any time," said Phil
slowly.
There was silence among the players, all of whom knew of the serious
illness of Phil's mother. Coach Lighton went up to the quarter-back and
said:
"Well, we won't practice any more to-day. It's too bad, Clinton."
Phil swallowed two or three times. He forced back a mistiness that was
gathering like a film over his eyes. He thrust the telegram into his
jacket.
"Let's go on with the practice," he said sturdily. "We aren't perfect in
that fake tackle run yet, and I want to use it against Dodville."
It was a plucky answer, and many a hardy player on the Randall eleven
felt a new liking for the quarter-back as he went to his place behind
Snail Looper, who stooped to receive the ball.
CHAPTER XXI
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
The practice was over. Phil stuck to it until he had, with the
assistance of the coach and the cap
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